Shake
by AnimationGirl
Summary: The complicated question: what if Grif and Simmons had been separated at the attack on Crash Site Bravo? The simple answer: no one deals with it that well.
1. Over And Out

A/N: This is what happens when you spend 3 hours in a bus every day. You keep getting new ideas for stories. I swear, when I wondered whether to start writing fanfiction for RvB I struggled to come up with a story. Now I have two complete multi-chapter stories. With this one, I will have two active stories. I am currently also working on six one-shots that I have no idea when will be finished. Bus rides take a toll on you.

But this fic was literally born from these lines of my other Grimmons fic called "As Seasons Pass" (you are very welcome to check it out)

" _You mean if I had gotten stuck with Sarge and you would have been left with Donut." Grif could not help but snort. Just imagining that scenario was horrifying. He could not decide who would have been the most tortured person in that version._

Well, Grif, we are about to answer that question…

…Being the writer, I put my money on Bitters (I am so sorry to do this to you, Bitters!)

You will see why below the title. Enjoy.

I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _Over. And Out._

 **[Shake:** _ **noun**_ **, a disturbing blow; shock.]**

* * *

The silence was tense. Everyone was holding their breath, awaiting orders. They all knew that the next move was critical, and that failure was unacceptable.

When a radio flared to life, a deep voice broke the silence. "Red Team, this is Blue Team. We are in position, how copy? Over."

One tense second later, he received a reply. "Blue Team, this is Red Team. I copy, Blue in position. Over."

That was one relief but it mattered little in a battle field. There were still so many things that could go wrong. "Pink team, this is Blue Team. All units are in position and awaiting further instructions, what is your status? Over."

The silence was deafening.

The deep voice returned, just a pitch more desperate this time. "Pink Team 2-3, this is Blue Team 1-2. Radio check, over."

And finally, earning just a brief second of relief, his question was answered. "Uh yeah, we're here Blue Team."

"Pink Team, I repeat, what is your status? Over."

"Uhhh… We're pretty good?" The voice sounded unsure. Just a bit too unsure.

" _What_?"

"Actually, uh, we were wondering if we could maybe change our name to, uh…" The voice cut itself off with a sigh that was deep and long and so painful that you could almost feel his agony. "Light-ish Red Team."

"What different does it make?!"

Even with the deep voice barking at him, the pained voice remained defeated. "It's a little bit better, I guess?" He sighed again and added bitterly, "Have some pity on us."

"This is not a matter of debate during a combat exercise!" There was a brief pause before he added, "Besides, I highly doubt that name will improve your situation."

Then came one final sigh of utter defeat. "I hate you all."

Somewhere, behind walls of safety, a light-ish red armored soldier was kneeling on the ground – a position that meant he would have to clean his armor later in order to keep it stainless. But of course this mission required hard work and sacrifices. So much was only to be expected.

"Come on, Bitters, try harder! You can't force a man down on his knees and still expect him to take it!"

"Donut!" a voice sounding not too happy – it was actually on the verge of being just rude – called out from behind him, and the soldier had to put his very important call on hold. Simmons was glaring at him, waving his rifle as he shrieked, "Get off the radio. The teams are fine."

'Fine' was not the word to describe this. 'Barely tolerable' fit better. And, sadly, Donut had to explain just why to his teammates. "But we established a long time ago that my armor isn't pink!"

" _You_ established that – _we_ disagreed," Simmons snapped at him. He took a brief moment to straighten out his back and tighten his grip on his weapon, before he continued to bark, "Now shut up. You're gonna blow our cover."

Donut had learned to put up with his teammates obliviousness a long time ago. "Fine. We'll settle with Pink until the matter is discussed again." With no other choice, he lifted his hand to call Bitters, and with a small sigh, Donut gave the orders. "Tell Blue Team we'll ignore their colorblindness for now and then you can get in position."

"I hate my life," was Bitters' reply, and Donut made a mental note to give his team a spirit-lifting peptalk later. He had to make sure everyone on his team was still with him, even the rear of his team. Maybe especially the rear. It was often the rear you had to grab the hardest in order to pull them along.

Simmons watched with narrowed eyes how the pink – yes, pink, even Kimball had pointed that out by now – soldier finally got off the ground, unnecessarily took the time to brush off the armor plates that covered his knees, even though they were just about to head into a combat scenario where dirty knees were the least of their problems.

And they had a lot of problems. In order to keep track, Simmons had, naturally, made a list. He had put the Feds on the top of the list, since they were responsible for the two main issues: the civil war (which had not really been Simmons' problem to begin with but, well, misery loves company) and the fact that his team had been forcefully split up (which honestly was Simmons' biggest problem at the moment, but now it had all been mixed up with the civil war, and he could not admit to his troop that he gave zero shits about their struggles just because his own life sucked.)

Speaking of his troop, he also had to find a way to speak to them properly without choking on his own tongue. Communication was a vital part in any successful mission, and that being said, if they screwed up this training session, Kimball would be severely disappointed and that would mean… and that would mean…

To the sound of Caboose accidently shooting the ground (Tucker had been lucky enough to get away from these unsuccessful training exercises, leaving Simmons and Donut to keep an eye on Caboose, which really was not fair since, you know, Caboose was a Blue.), Simmons somehow managed to zone out.

He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, realized that Donut was staring at him with a tilted helmet. The pink soldier gestured towards the security door. "You want me to penetrate the system?"

" _Hack_ , Donut. It's called hacking the system," Simmons told him in a mutter. It was not safe to let Donut penetrate anything. Crouching down in front of the panel, Simmons held his breath as he began to work because he could not afford to fuck this up – _he could not_ fucking _afford to fuck this up_ , and if he did, it was his own fucking fault and Grif was-

Simmons shook himself out of his thoughts. "Okay, doors opening in approximately fifteen seconds."

Fifteen seconds was a lot of time, when you thought about it. A lot of things could go wrong.

What if it didn't work? What if it was a trap? What would Sarge say in a situation like this?

And, more importantly, what would Grif say?

Not that the lazy idiot would add anything close to calming to the situation. He would probably just insult Simmons or make fun of his worries or tell him to shut the fuck up. But Simmons would have preferred Grif's stupid comments. At least then Simmons would have been able to speak his thoughts out loud.

Who could he talk to now? Donut – no, that would become uncomfortable really fast. Caboose – Simmons would get more comfort from talking to a wall. Tucker was not even here, because somehow the Blue could suck up even better than Simmons (if sucking up also included getting good results in the training exercises.) which meant he could join Felix on super special important missions that probably sucked. Then Simmons had his squad, but he could not even give his girls orders, let alone address his mental struggles. Besides, he was a Captain now and Captains were supposed to be tough and not whining like Simmons was.

So Simmons had grown used to biting his tongue in order to keep his worries back. He was pretty sure his tongue now had a permanent dent.

The panel flashed and the password beeped in.

The fifteen seconds were over. Huh. Time flies fast when you're having a mental breakdown.

To the sound of Caboose shooting the hell out of the wall, Simmons zoned out again, closing his eyes and wondering how the hell they had ended up in this situation.

* * *

"I did not sign up for this shit!" Grif yelled but continued to shoot at the enemies nonetheless. Not like he had the choice to give up, though that did sound like a great option. Still, he preferred to keep bullets out of his body, so he kept firing his weapon.

"You've never signed up for anything in your life!" Simmons shouted back at him. The maroon soldier had just returned with Wash and Donut, after Tucker had successfully managed to recharge Freckles (still a fucking stupid name, but hey, at least it was no longer trying to kill them), which was pretty damn great. Grif would never be the first person to says that they could do this –

-That would be Wash who was shouting loud enough to be heard through the gunfire, "Alright, everyone together! We can do this!"

-but with the giant robot on their side, things were looking a little bit up. Like, instead of the pitch-dark blackness of their doom, it was instead the slightly more grey color of a shitty situation.

For a brief moment, like only a fucking second, Grif allowed himself to feel just a tiny bit relieved – and of course it would come back to bite his ass.

Things went to shit pretty quickly.

First Wash fell which was pretty fucking bad 'cause Grif had really been counting on the Freelancer to deal with the bad guys. That was what Freelancers did, right? Let the professionals do the hard work.

And then Sarge suddenly turned sentimental which Grif really should have understood was one of the warning signs for the end of the world.

"You bastards stay away from my men! If anybody's gonna kill 'em it's gonna be me!"

Donut barely had to time to sniffle, because of course Sarge's words were causing the pink soldier to tear up, before another shot rang out and then it was the Red leader's turn to fall.

"Sarge?" Grif could not help but ask, because no matter how shitty things had been he had always been able to count on Sarge to be there to make things worse for him.

Something exploded, the gunfire was louder than ever, and at some point Grif looked up to see that Freckles was burning. Suddenly men were swarming into the canyon, and at this point Grif had pretty much given up on understanding what the fuck was happening, and had instead settled with the conclusion that things were just fucked.

He did, however, realize what had to be done when Felix told them to run. Grif shouted for Caboose to get going because of course the blue idiot was not going to move by himself, and then he proceeded to grab Simmons' elbow and shove him forwards, even when the other man was screaming about helping Sarge. Out of the corner of his eye, Grif saw something pink, and then Donut was in front of them, taking the lead with Caboose and Simmons close behind him. Tucker was at the cave entrance too, several of the slow-as-fuck rebels running past him.

Not that Grif was quick or anything. But the rebels had not exactly showed up on time, and Grif was definitely going to remember that. Speaking of being quick, Grif was panting heavily as he thought about how badly running sucked and how he had definitely earned an extra snack cake after all this.

But the cave was right there, the others had almost reached it by now, so his lungs could soon stop burning and-

-there was an even worse burning feeling on a spot on his back, near his right shoulder, followed by a force equivalent to someone pushing him. Grif fell forward and even before he hit the ground, he knew he was not going to get up again.

He did not black out immediately. Bastards did not have the courtesy to take him out instantly, and so Grif lay on the ground, feeling like if his back was on fire. He did feel rather sleepy, though. This definitely earned him the right to nap.

But being awake for a few extra seconds also gave him the chance to become worried. He found himself unable to move his head, but he had landed in a position that let him stare directly at the mouth of the cave.

Pink and blue disappeared into it, soon followed by maroon. Grif let out a deep breath – and ignored the dark as fuck thought that told him it might be his last. At least Simmons had not realized what had happened. Simmons was the kind of person dumb enough to turn around and run straight into gunfire if he panicked.

So now Grif could close his eyes without worrying for the maroon idiot to get shot. That was… great. Yeah. Still, it would been strangely comforting for Simmons to be there when Grif died so he was not going to be alone when it happened. Could have been nice.

But there had to be worse ways to go.

Even with his blurry vision, Grif could see the rocks fall. This weird sort of finality filled his stomach – the kind that sucked, like opening the drawer only to find the pack of Oreos empty with nothing left but crumbs or back in his first days at Red Base when he figured out that Sarge's version of dessert was Grif's so-called sweet tears after being forced to run through the obstacles course _five fucking_ times while being shot at. It was that ice-cold realization that the world sucked and there was nothing you could do about it.

Well shit, Grif thought as his eyelids slowly dropped down. That should have been his last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness, but he managed to scramble together one final complaint-

… _ow._

* * *

It was by pure habit that Simmons looked over his shoulder. It was a long time ago since he established the fact that Grif was slow as fuck. That meant Simmons always had to turn around to make sure that Grif was still with him whenever they retreated from a (most often unsuccessful) attack on the Blue Base. Most of the times he would find Grif lying on the ground, and Simmons would be worried for just a second before forcing his teammate to get off his fat ass. This would be done with either insults or, in extreme matters, shooting the ground next to the idiot – Sarge had taught him well.

Not much had changed this time. Simmons looked over his shoulder, saw Grif lying flat on his belly, but instead of the annoyed sigh that Simmons would normally let out, he froze and shrieked so loudly that his voice managed to crack three times, " _Grif_!"

When Simmons came to an abrupt stop, Donut halted next to him. The pink soldier turned his head and saw what would forever be a mental image to haunt Simmons. "Oh no," Donut breathed out.

They both started to rush forward, and Simmons, in his panic, somehow noticed how Tucker had frozen near the entrance, calling out for Wash, but before they could run past the Blue or drag him along back into the crash site, everything just fell apart.

It began with the ceiling of the cave.

Simmons was about to leap forward – if he could just make it to the other side, he could avoid the rocks and he would have _fucking made it_ – but Donut grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him backwards with enough force to send falling to the ground, landing roughly on his butt. How typical of Donut to make others' asses sore.

But Tucker was even worse off. Donut was too far away to grab him as well, so when the rocks started to fall the Blue took one to the head and was out faster than Simmons could have a panic attack. Donut was helping his maroon teammate back on his feet when they noticed how unresponsive the Blue had become.

"Better check if he's alive," Donut said, a bit calmer than expected. The time he had spent with Doc had probably rubbed off on him.

Simmons did not reply. He stared at the blocked entrance and only blinked when some random soldier asked him if he was alright. Simmons had momentarily forgotten that the rebels had come to save (some of) them, and he turned his head to see more rebels kneeling down next to Donut and Tucker.

"He's just unconscious," Donut informed them. "Head has a bump, but a bit of swelling has never killed anyone before."

"Good," Felix said, strolling in front of Simmons who stared at him twitching eyes. "I really don't need more bad news."

When Simmons finally found his words, they came stumbling out of his mouth to create a mess. "I- we- they-" After cutting himself off to many times, he finally just waved at the collapsed entrance. That really should say everything that needed to be said, but he added, "We have to do something!"

Letting out a small sigh, Felix turned his head away from Simmons and addressed the rebels who from the look of the scanner they were using on Tucker's head probably were medics. They were treating the Blue's wound. "Help carry him out of here. We leave now."

Simmons choked on _something_. Anger, disbelief, denial. "But they- we can't-"

Felix was already marching after the medics carrying Tucker. "I know the situation isn't ideal-"

" _Ideal_? We've _lost_ half of the team-"

"And there's nothing we can do about it," Felix ended his sentence for him, rather harshly. A bit too harsh, actually. Something twisted inside Simmons' cyborg stomach, and he wasn't sure if it was caused by the unwavering words or the true realization of what had just happened. "Look, we have to head back to Kimball where you guys can get filled in on future plans and where I have to face a lot of consequences. No one is happy about what just happened, Simmons."

Felix kept walking and Simmons found himself stumbling after him in order to reply. He was not sure of how exactly to response – his mind was still so freaked out that he could literally hear static in the back of his brain – and in the end he settled with the question, "Who's Kimball?"

There was something strange about the way Felix finally stopped to looked at Simmons, head slightly tilted as if was aware of something Simmons was still clueless about. "Kimball is your best solution to this mess," Felix replied, his answer obscure enough to fit a mercenary.

Simmons set his jaw as Felix walked away from him. He blinked furiously in order to clear his vision (cyborg eye acting up again, probably) and flinched when a heavy hand was suddenly placed on his shoulder. Donut was looking at him, the blank visor somehow managing to seem concerned. "I'm pretty sure I saw Grif breathing."

Donut might have tried to comfort him, but the words only managed to screw Simmons' brain over to the point where the noises around him start to fade, leaving only a hollow ringing. Seeing Grif's still form on the ground had caused him to panic because it meant that Grif did not make it to the cave, that he was trapped on the other side.

"You know how Grif is always heaving for breath when he's been running – I told him the cigarettes can harm your performance – but, well, it's impossible to miss his panting even from this distance."

Simmons was still deaf to Donut's reassurances. It occurred to him that he might not have to worry about getting Grif back, because Donut could be wrong and the fatass might already be dead.

That thought was so cold and final that Simmons could feel a short circuit travelling up his spine. "I, uh… I think I might be glitching," he managed to stutter before his knees gave out.

Donut already had an arm around his shoulder, keeping him upwards as they slowly made their way forward, with the rebels encouraging them since _they had to leave – they had to leave now – they would be safe at the HQ – there was nothing more they could do here._

"That's okay," Donut said, trying to sound positive and normal like their world had not been turned upside down. "That happens to everyone."

Not really. But Simmons stayed silent and grabbed Donut's arm tighter as they limped away. He was suddenly too tired to look over his shoulder to see the rocks that left them with no choice but to move forward.

* * *

When the training session was over (a completely failure, of course, but who would have expected otherwise?) and Kimball had left them with the orders to encourage their team, Simmons had no idea of what to say.

Not that it mattered much. Even when speaking to Jensen, his mind would still screw over his mouth, leaving him with muddled words instead of orders – or even something that was just close to an actual sentence. It was better just to shut up.

Caboose was rambling about how you could actually give away your flag and it would still return to you – if you just hired a Freelancer, a mean one, just to be specific. Smith somehow translated this into metaphor of how you sometimes must sometimes sacrifice what was dearest to you and then put your trust on strangers that would hopefully save the day. Much like how the rebels were counting on them to save them all. Horrifying thought, actually.

When Donut took the word, he talked about it was important to grab each other and then pull… the person along, in order to make sure that all the teammates were in the same boat and understood each other.

As Donut faced the Lieutenants, Simmons was still trying to figure out what to tell the young soldiers. Maybe everything had been said once Donut's was gone and then Simmons did not even have to open his mouth.

At some points during Donut's speech, Simmons realized he was no longer staring at Jensen, preparing himself from the intense stare she always had when he was addressing her. Instead, Simmons found himself glaring at Bitters.

The Lieutenant, who had been forced to paint his armor partly pink when he had been given to Donut, was standing in front of the Captains, but his slouched form revealed that he had stopped paying attention a long time ago. Donut did not seem to mind. Perhaps he could not see it. Perhaps Simmons was just so familiar with the stance that only he realized that Bitters was thinking about everything else than his Captain's words.

It was not because Simmons did not understand why the Lieutenant was always gloomy. Being forced to wear pink would do that to a person (unless that person was Donut). It was understandable why Bitters had desperately tried to find a way to change color or even team, as an even better solution.

Maybe Simmons could have taken pity on the young Lieutenant who had been shoved into a pink-striped armor. After his years in the women's league, Simmons should have been the first one to show empathy.

And Simmons knew Donut and his… choice of speech. He should understand why being Donut's Lieutenant, especially when that position had been forced upon him, was not exactly easy. He should have, well, comforted the soldier. Or, more likely, just given him a pitiful nod with his head or lie to him and tell him that things were going to get better. Which they weren't. 'cause things sucked.

Perhaps he should ask Kimball if Donut's squad could wear some different colors. A darker shade or something. Not that it would help much, but at least he would have tried.

Or he should just tell Bitters that yes, it did indeed suck to be him. He should acknowledge the Lieutenant's struggles to let him know that not everyone ridiculed him.

The keyword in all of this was _should_.

Donut's speech ended, Simmons quietly muttered that he had nothing more to add, and the Lieutenants were dismissed.

After shifting his feet, Simmons turned his head to stare at Bitters who was not helping clean up the mess the training session had created. While the other soldiers were dutifully picking up dropped weapons and trying to put out the fire that was currently eating the engine of a crashed warthog, the Pink Lieutenant shuffled away to settle down on some nearby crates.

Simmons gripped his weapon tighter and watched.

He watched the way Bitters leaned back to find a comfortable position, the way he crossed his arms in defiance, and when Smith came over to tell him to get going, Simmons could not overhear Bitters shrugging him off with a "Whatever."

Simmons watched the too familiar relaxed posture until there was a twinge in his stomach and his throat started to close up.

He tore his eyes away from the Lieutenant in the pink stripes and decided that Bitters was a lazy excuse for a soldier who most definitely did not deserve his pity.

Besides, pity sucked.

But if someone deserved pity, it _was_ probably Bitters. It was certainly not Simmons.

So if someone could tell Donut to stop looking at him like he was about to have a meltdown at every second, Simmons would appreciate it.

* * *

A/N: It took me forever to decide who should be staying with the Rebels. But I knew Grif would be stuck with Sarge and Simmons with Donut, and then I imagined Sarge as a Captain – he would be yelling crazy plans to his men. So not much would have changed. Then I imagined Donut as a Captain… and my world was blown away. It gave me a creativity boost and I have written too many Captain Donut scenes already. It was pretty much the idea of him and then poor Bitters in pink stripes that moved this story from my 'Crazy-stuff-that-may-or-may-not-be-written-folder' (and that one is huge) to 'stuff-I-have-to-work-on-the-moment-I-have-the-time-folder'.

JUST TO MAKE THINGS CLEAR: this will NOT be just a rewritten version of season 12. Yes, you will recognize some scenes (especially this chapter has a lot of familiar scenes, but that was because the opening scene fit so well that it was pure gold) here and there, but this story will mostly be all the things we didn't see (especially what happened at the Feds' compound) and of course entirely new moments now when the duo has been split up.

I shoot Grif way too much. I think it's my inner Sarge controlling me. I'll find a way to balance myself later.

*cracks knuckles as I stretch my hands* Back in Grimmons corner! To be honest, I've missed it a bit. I'm glad to be back. This story will be a bit more fluffy and perhaps a bit more angsty than my other stories, but I hope you will still enjoy it.

Thank you for reading my work.


	2. Authority Figures

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _Authority Figures_

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used without object,**_ **to totter; become unsteady.]**

* * *

When Simmons had been 16, he had tried to get a girlfriend. It had not exactly been his own idea – during an extremely uncomfortable dinner conversation, his father had made a comment about his son's lack of proper female acquaintances. Well, he had actually just said female acquaintances. He had had not been that specific. To be honest, he had just criticized the lack of acquaintances of all kind in general.

Simmons had been aware of the fact that he was not the most popular kid on the school. It was not because he was completely friendless – he often joined the chess club after school, and he had actually managed to have a five minute conversation with a mathlete from his class. It would have been easier had he been able to invite them to come at his place to discuss strategies or the latest homework, but he knew the disapproving stares his father would send him if he saw him practicing one of his hobbies.

And it was not exactly easy to make friends when you were known as the guy in the women's league.

Maybe he should have used his unusual position to his own advantage, but it was no secret that his female teammates were not happy with his presence. He knew better than to ask them out.

So he had tried with something a little less scary than the muscular, slim, tall girls who had attempted to slam a ball in his face every time he came too close.

The chess club had this girl who was a year younger than him but smarter than most on his age. She had brown long hair, usually gathered in a ponytail, and Simmons had wondered if he was supposed to touch it if she became his girlfriend, if it was soft.

He did not have an exact plan, but he figured it should be pretty easy to ask her out – everyone in the chess club was pretty much singly by default, unless they dated each other, since nerds had to stick together.

Maybe to ask her out was not the right term. He had indeed asked her – to play a game of chess. He had even bought her a juice, one of them in a carton since you could not trust the so-called 'fresh' juice you could buy in the canine (he had been pretty sure the oranges had been lying on the shelves for so long that they were as hard as coconuts), and he had stuttered that she looked pretty.

Not pretty as in those girls who could be models, those who showed up in short skirts and high heels, those the other girls would send sidelong glances when they walked down the hall. But she had not exactly been ugly either.

He remembered she had been wearing bracers, those big silver ones, and he had paid a lot of attention to them since he had been constantly staring at her lips, wondering if he was supposed to kiss her and if it would feel nice.

When the compliment had stumbled off his tongue, she had thrown her head back and laughed. Her brown hair had been swinging wildly and the bracers were very visible as she pursed her lips and told him that she had thought he had been trying to audience for the chess club.

As she realized it had in his mind been a date, she threw the King in his face and told him she knew that was a joke because everyone knew _why_ he was on the women's league, that everyone knew just how much he had in common with the girls.

Simmons had dropped his jaw, looking like fish out of water, and she had snarled that he would not find anything to suck on here. Before leaving, she had taken the time to show him how she would have caught him in a checkmate with her next move, successfully destroying any hopes he may have had of joining the chess club.

Simmons had hurried out of the room with burning cheeks and the sudden, horrifying realization of just why his father had suddenly pressed for him to get a girlfriend.

Lesson learned – even the seemingly harmless girls can be dangerous.

At least Jensen's eyes were softer and did not have the constantly cold glance of concentration like the chess girl. Not that Simmons' Lieutenant wasn't a genius, and so far the girl had continued to surprise him with her understanding of military strategies and the science behind vehicles. Not that she was able to drive them, but at least she had enough knowledge to fix the jeep after she touched it.

The bracers caused an unnerving flashback, however, but out of all the girls on his team, Jensen somehow managed to be the least threatening. Maybe it was the lisp.

"Ready to follow your orders, sir," she told him and saluted him, the other girls mirroring her action immediately.

Simmons gulped and tried to remember how you pronounced the word 'affirmative'. It had suddenly slipped his mind, leaving him with nothing to say.

All the girls set their eyes on him as they waited for him to say something, anything, and for the fourth time that day, Simmons really felt like curling into a ball and cry.

* * *

"Uhm, are we sure this is a good idea?" Simmons asked when they had finished the meeting with Kimball, who had been rather stern when it came to the plan. The leader was a whole other sort of authority than Sarge, but she was somehow even more terrifying, despite Sarge's threats and trigger finger.

"Dude, when have we ever been picky? Don't we usually just get _an_ idea and just say fuck it?" Tucker paused, turning his head to glare at his Blue teammate. "Hell, Caboose usually skips the idea-part and goes straight to saying fuck it."

Even with his helmet, Caboose managed to look offended. "That's not true! Mother told me not to use bad language!"

"I'm sure they will be nice." Donut gave them a comforting smile before putting his helmet back on his face again. They had been advised to keep their armor all the time except when absolutely necessary, due to the fact that they were in the middle of a civil war. Kimball had briefly mentioned something about assassins and dead diplomats, but she had quickly changed subject. It was probably not that important.

"We're not worried if they're nice, Donut," Simmons told him bitterly. "We are worried if they're fucking stupid."

"Stupid, meh. Naïve is a better word. Young and naïve and lively enough to have a thing for hot, brave authority figures. We're all very worried."

Simmons deadpanned and breathed out through his nose. "Really?" he asked Tucker distastefully before hiding his expression behind a visor as well.

"We all have different coping mechanisms," Donut told him in a very serious manner. "Some choose to distance themselves from reality and deny their true feelings."

"Dude, let's not make this a fucking therapy class," Tucker said. He looked strangely uncomfortable, though Simmons did not have the chance to get a better look at the expression before it was masked by the helmet.

Caboose sighed sadly. "I failed that class. I got an F."

"See, somehow I don't doubt that, Caboose," Tucker snorted, but then they all fell quiet when they suddenly faced _the door_.

Just to clarify: _the door_ was the door that led the training facility where their squads were waiting to see their Captains for the first time.

Said Captains were now frozen in front of the door, shifting their feet and sending each other unsure glances. "Soooo…" Donut began and immediately stopped.

"Is it locked?"

"No, Caboose," Simmons said, not even trying to hide his irritation. He felt weirdly torn as he looked at _the door_. He knew that he had to get on the other side of the door, that it was the only way forward, and that it would be best just to get it over with. Still, the thought of opening _the door_ was not pleasant. Like having to jump into cold water. Or like every morning of Simmons' senior year when he had to open the doors to enter the school building.

"Oh," Caboose said. "Do we have to use the special word? Because in that case – _please_."

Of course that did not open the door, much to the disappointment of Caboose and the annoyance of everyone else. They stood there for some seconds, shifting their feet. "Well, this is awkward," Tucker finally said, rubbing his neck.

Donut nodded. "Tense, exciting and a little bit painful – just like every good foreplay."

Well, now the situation as indeed awkward.

At least they understood each other. None of them (except Caboose, technically) had ever been a leader before, and even though they knew what had to be done, it did not make it easier. The responsibility felt very heavy on their shoulders.

"Fuck this," Tucker then exclaimed, his sudden outburst causing Simmons to blink. The Blue soldier was about to step forward, finally opening _the door_ , but Caboose was faster.

In a matter of seconds, _the door_ suddenly opened, Caboose disappeared behind it, there was a second of confusion, and then it opened again, revealing Caboose who let out a gasp. "It's not locked on this side either!"

Behind the Blue soldier who was currently facing them, they could see numerous of soldiers in tan armor, all with different colors of stripes, though the colors remained within the ranges of blue, green and some sort of red. Many of them were stretching their neck or leaning to one side in order to look past Caboose and get a glimpse of the other Captains. They did not seem to understand why Caboose had his back turned to them – but there really wasn't a reason to why he was doing that, so of course they were confused.

"Well, at least Caboose has presented himself," Tucker said with a shrug and stepped inside the training facility.

As they came closer and closer to the awaiting soldiers, Simmons noticed how they were divided into four groups: one with different shades of green trims, one with shades a blue, and then the red colored soldiers were divided into being either a darker red or, well, pink.

Well, that seemed promising. "I think they may already have delegated the teams," Simmons said quietly. He was mentally crossing his fingers – what if he got the dumb soldiers? Or the lazy ones? Or the ones who wouldn't listen to him? Well, actually, Simmons could not imagine a single soldier wanting himself as their authority figure, but some had to be worse than others. At least his soldiers weren't wearing pink.

"You think?" Tucker snorted, and then the Captains had come close enough to place themselves in front of the group, who were all radiating an excited tension. The Captains had no idea of what to say, so they stayed silent. The privates were quiet as well – maybe they were also lost as fuck.

Finally one blue-trimmed soldier took a step forward. Simmons noticed how his back was very straight and his chin was lifted very high. "We are honored to be in your presence, sir, and we all stand here to show our gratitude by letting you know that we will fight with you till the end."

"Wow, dude, we're not stepping into a wedding here. Calm down." Tucker turned to face Donut who could not help but let out an excited 'Ooh!' at the word _wedding_. "You too."

"Oh, I know we're not going to have a wedding _now_. We're still missing-"

"Donut," Simmons cut him off sharply, narrowed eyes beneath the visor. "Shut up."

The very formal soldier cleared his throat before proclaiming, "Blue Team presenting."

"Tucker, I found our team!" Caboose exclaimed as he waved at the Blue group. A few of them waved back, some tried with a salute, and some just seemed absolutely lost.

" _Your_ team, Caboose," Tucker said, his voice stiff enough for Simmons to notice. "Things are a bit different here." They sure were. Taking a few step to the right, Tucker placed himself in front of the group with stripes of different shades of green. "I take it you're my team?"

Many of the soldiers nodded, and one of them gave him a salute and told him, "Green Team stands ready to serve."

"Green? Dude, do I look green to you?" Tucker was pointing at his own chest plague when he realized just how a big discussion his armor color was and how little time they had. "You know what, never mind."

Now when Blue and Green team had presented themselves, the soldiers in the red stripes were in line to be the next ones. Simmons kept himself from gulping. "We stand ready to serve, Captain Simmons," an energetic, _female_ voice told him.

Simmons was briefly worried just why he knew his name, but then he figured Kimball had probably told them. Also, there were so many other things to be worried about.

Tucker did not seem so troubled by Simmons' obvious problem. "Oh, dude, you got a girl! Unfair!"

One of the red-trimmed soldiers raised her hand and after a second of stuttering, she spoke with a very obvious lisp, "Actually, we're all female soldiers on this team."

"You've got to be kidding me," Tucker said and Simmons was thinking the exact same thing. Horrible flashbacks were already filling his brain, and goddamnit, he had never been able to win a single chess match since that episode (well, except for the one time he won a bet and Grif had to play with him – and _fucking fuck_ his thoughts were not supposed to wander in that direction) and what was going on now was a whole other sort of battle that Simmons was definitely not allowed to lose.

"General Kimball thought divided teams would decrease distraction, sir," the lisping voice explained, almost sounding apologetic.

Tucker leaned uncomfortable close to Simmons as he tried to whisper, "Hey, Simmons, wanna switch?"

But since the Blue had not learned how to whisper without everyone hearing it, a sad voice called out from the Green team, "Aw. Don't you like us, sir?"

"Palomo, if you start to cry, I swear to god-" Another soldier began to scold him and Simmons cared too little to keep listening.

Tucker was still invading his personal space, and Simmons suddenly realized he was waiting for an answer. Well, shit. Simmons tried to clear his throat, choked on some spit, and finally managed to stutter, "No, I- yes- wait- I mean, the colors- the teams are _fiii_ ne. Yes. Fine."

Okay, so maybe his speech was not that impressive. But considering the situation, it was a big amount of words. Perhaps the words did not make that much sense, but they were words. It had to count for something. At least Grif was not there to tease him.

Oh shit, that was a bad use of ' _at least_ '. Simmons wished he could take it back. Not like everyone could hear him – he kept the rambling in his head. Which was a good thing. Probably. Well, technically it was recommended to share troubled thoughts with others, but who should that be? Besides, Simmons was doing fine. _Fiii_ ne. He should probably stop his mental rambling now.

For two horribly long seconds, Simmons wondered if he had accidently spoken his thoughts out loud, since Tucker was staring at him, and even with the emotionless visor, he managed to look like he thought Simmons had lost his mind. "Dude. What the fuck?"

"S'nothing."

"Right," Tucker snorted. At least he had only been talking about Simmons' horrible stutter.

While Tucker had been watching Simmons having a mental breakdown and Caboose had been trying to count his men (he kept forgetting what came after eight, since seven ate nine), Donut had taken the opportunity to clasp his hands together in excitement and address the soldiers who were wearing a lighter nuance of red than Simmons'. "And I take it you are the guys who get to watch my body in action?"

There was a long hesitant pause where the soldiers were trying to process what they had just been told. At last, one of them finally began to speak, "Pink Team is-"

He was immediately cut off by one of the soldiers in the back, who was now shoving his way through the crowd towards their new Captain. "Wait, you're not a girl?" he demanded to know, sounding both surprised and demanding on the same time.

"The most disappointed words a man can ever utter," Tucker sighed with a shake of his head.

Donut put his hands on his hips. "I am most certainly not a girl – I have more than enough proof-"

The private, who Simmons now realized had no sense of manners, cut his own Captain off. "If you're not a girl, then why the fuck do we have to wear pink armor?"

Well, shit. Now that discussion was about to begin. Simmons was too tired to stop it, so he figured he could just let the world burn.

Donut gasped very loudly. "It's not pink! It's light-ish red!"

The soldier, who had looked absolutely fuming before, now slouched over as he tried to understand. Which he didn't. Finally, he just let out this sad, defeated "What?"

"You're clearly all wearing armor with light-ish red stripes – and I have to say, guys, that you look absolutely stunning in it."

Only one of the soldiers found the strength to respond to that comment. "Thank you very much, sir!" He actually sounded happy about it. "I'm Private Matthews and-"

"Nobody cares, Matthews," the grumpy soldier told him as he leaned back and crossed his arms in defiance.

Simmons turned his head and saw all the red-trimmed helmets that were focused on him. He gulped. He tried to say something, and ended up gulping again. His mouth was very dry.

He was now about a hundred percent sure that the universe hated his guts.

Maybe this was what Grif had felt like when he had been drafted.

It took about a second before Simmons realized his mistake. He had made a pretty simple set of rules. Don't think about Grif. Don't think about Sarge or Wash or Lopez or that Locus dude and all the horrible things that he might be doing to them now.

And by thinking about his set of rules, Simmons suddenly realized he had broken the rules again by thinking about the rules which contained their names.

 _Fuck_.

He should just imagine all the thoughts as one big red stop sign. Think of it as viruses that were trying to melt his brain. Maybe he could install some sort of anti-virus. Wait, was that an actual thing for cyborgs? And did that mean viruses were something he should be worried about as well? Because he hadn't even trying to look into such software, and he highly doubted that Sarge would ever have thought of –

 _Fuck it_. He fucking fucked up again because he couldn't even fucking keep the fucking thoughts away-

"Is he okay?" the lisping girl asking, gesturing towards Simmons who had frozen in a tense position, occasionally muttering some unintelligible words.

Donut nodded and put a hand on the maroon soldier, causing the soldier to jerk. "Oh, that happens all the time. Usually in the bathroom, though. Small accidents – but not that kind of accidents. Then Grif will come and pick up the pieces – as in the mirror pieces, not the-"

"Wow," Tucker said, effectively shutting him up. Unlike he pink soldier, he had noticed how mentioning Grif's name had not seemed to help on Simmons' meltdown. Maybe it was because he kinda understood the feeling. Not that he was freaking out like Simmons – that was just Simmons being Simmons. "You and Doc should open a Psychiatric clinic. 'Free mental breakdowns to the lucky bastards who haven't realized the dark truth of reality"."

Caboose nodded very slowly. "That sounds like a great offer."

"It's so good to see you're already busy working and definitely not wasting your time." Felix came strolling towards them, seemingly out of nowhere. He gave the young soldiers a short nod, and most of them seemed to straighten their postures at the sight of the mercenary. Not that Simmons could not understand them – Felix did not exactly hide the fact that he was a fighter worthy of respect. "You know, for persons who complained so loudly about the Rebels being too slow to save your friends, you do seem to spend a remarkable amount of time standing around talking."

That comment hit the Captains hard, and when Simmons looked around, he saw he was not the only one who had suddenly shifting his feet and lowering his glance.

"Kimball has reserved the training hall for you the next three hours. Since it's _you_ training _these guys_ , I probably wouldn't waste them."

Felix was already beginning to march out of the room when Tucker took a step forward and called after him, "Wait. So what exactly are we supposed to do with them?"

Looking over his shoulder, the mercenary answered, "Take some inspiration from your own life. I mean, you must have gone through some training."

" _Some_?! Hell yeah, Wash made us run laps every…" Tucker trailed off as he, like every of the other Captains, felt very uncomfortable whenever their captured friends were mentioned. "So yeah. I guess we could do that."

"That would be an excellent idea, Captain Tucker."

"Great." Tucker rubbed the back of his neck as Felix disappeared and they were left alone with the young soldiers who really had to be losing their patience by now. "Right." Tucker cleared his throat before giving his orders in a tone that was trying to match the one of an authority figure. It sounded weird coming from the normally reckless Blue soldier. "Go run some laps."

The green-trimmed soldiers hesitated, and Simmons wondered if this was their first real training lesson or if Tucker's voice just didn't cut through. One of the privates held up a hand and asked, "How many?"

Their Captain shrugged. "Until I tell you to stop."

For some seconds, most of the soldiers began to shuffle away from the other groups to begin the training, but one of the green privates remained where he stood, hesitated, but then asked, "So how long until you tell us to stop?"

"Palomo, for fuck's sake-" One of his fellow privates began, but was quickly cut off by the soldier going by the name Palomo.

"Shh. Don't curse in front of the Captain."

With Tucker taking the lead, the other Captains followed him, and Simmons tried to keep his voice as steady as possible when he told his team to "Uhm… Yeah, I- Uh- Just, just do the same. I guess. I mean – affirmative."

* * *

"Hey, I think we need to talk."

You automatically knew something was wrong when Tucker was trying to sound serious. Simmons nodded and excused himself from his squad to follow the Blue into an empty hallway for some privacy. He already knew this was going to be an awkward conversation, even without Tucker's dirty jokes. The Blue did not really seem like he was in the mood for joking.

"So, hate to be the one breaking this to you, but since I'm the leader and all that, you gotta know that you suck."

Well. Ouch. It was not that he wasn't aware of the fact. Grif had made sure to remind so often that – _fuck! Simple rules, Simmons, those were fucking_ simple _rules!_

Maybe this was Donut's idea. It would not be unlike the pink soldier to believe that if he could make Tucker utter the same words, Simmons would somehow be comforted by the familiarity.

"Did Donut put you up to this?"

The Blue soldier looked taken back. Strange. "What? No. Why, has he come to talked to you about it too?"

"Talked to me about _what_?!" What, did they know something? Had patrols returned with more information? Had Kimball revealed anything about their comrades' situation, other than them being alive (which was a comforting thought, yet not as comforting as it should be. It seemed that in this war, being dead was sometimes more merciful than being captured. Simmons really missed their "war" back in Blood Gulch)?

Tucker sighed and removed his helmet. Without it, Simmons could see how tired the Blue looked. Perhaps he was not the only one having trouble sleeping. "Look, man, you need to pull yourself together."

"Wha – I am!" He really was. This morning he had even eaten all of his breakfast under Donut's concerned glance and he had not even thrown up afterwards since he had managed to keep the disturbing thoughts away. That had to count for something.

The Blue let out something that sounded like a choked snort. "Right. You know when we can hear you in training, right? I mean, if what you're saying can count as words."

"So I have trouble talking to girls. It's not a big deal."

"Well, it is with your squad. Still fucking unfair – I'm stuck with fucking Palomo and you get to be surrounded with more girls than I've met since I joined the military. And trust me – I looked everywhere."

Simmons shifted his feet, making a point by keeping his helmet on in order to hide his expression. It was not like the Blue needed to see his frown. "So your point is?"

"We have _five_ days. That's not a fucking lot of time."

"That's why I chose Jensen. So there – problem solved. She's not that scary."

Tucker let out an actual snort this time. "Dude, if you see something scary in a girl that chokes on her own spit, you have problems."

"Yeah," Simmons muttered and twisted his hands. "Yeah."

"Look, I can't have you stroking out when we're doing this. I already have Caboose, and that's enough babysitting for me."

"You don't need to babysit me," Simmons barked. Okay, so maybe he was not the most steady person at the time, but he most certainly did not need the Blue to watch over him. Besides, he had Donut which was more than enough.

"Simmons, your squad comes to ask my men what to do when they don't understand your rambling. And if people are counting on those idiots to help them, they're pretty far out."

So maybe he had been stuttering a bit. But it had not been that bad. Probably.

"I'm asking you to talk to your squad – not fucking flirt with them. Gods know that would be disastrous."

Simmons were clinging his hands so tightly that he could feel his bones creaking under the strength of his cyborg limb. "I'm _trying_."

"You are? 'cause in training it sure doesn't look like it," Tucker replied without taking his eyes off Simmons.

The truth was that Simmons had been trying. He just sucked at trying. While Tucker had made sure that his squad was practicing their stamina, shooting targets and jumping over obstacles, Simmons had let out a mess of words that had resulting in his girls walking around aimlessly until he finally just pointed at some random training equipment.

So the Blue knew nothing. He did not know that this was by far the longest time Simmons had avoided bickering. Or that Simmons' room had no mirrors that he could punch. Or that there was a sea of bad thoughts lurking in Simmons' head that just kept trying to break out through his mouth, but he had no one to talk to.

So maybe he had some problems talking to girls. But that was the least of Simmons' problems right now.

He set his jaw. "We can't all be personally trained by Freelancers."

Tucker's jaw dropped for a moment before he regained his composure. "Seriously? You wanna use such blows? 'cause I thought you wanted them back as much as I do."

"I – Of course I do!"

"Yeah? Then man up! It's not that hard. Hell, Caboose has more control over his squad than you do."

"Caboose has Smith," the cyborg reminded him dryly. "That's an unfair point."

"Then agree with me on this – we can't afford to screw up this chance. I know that screwing up is what we do best, but I sure as hell am not going to let them stay with Locus longer than necessary." Tucker straightened out his back, like if he was trying to stare down Simmons, and the cyborg wondered if how much Tucker had let his new position get to his head.

"I'm not gonna fuck this up," Simmons told him sternly. Because he wasn't. Not when so much was counting on him. He would fucking give up his squad if that was what it took.

"Good. 'cause I'm not gonna let you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Blue?!" Simmons snarled, surprising himself by his own anger. His irritation really shouldn't be a surprise – the lack of sleep should do this to you. And both Captains seemed to be plagued by sleepless nights.

Tucker narrowed his eyes. "Are you seriously going to start the whole Red versus Blue shit again? 'cause now is a pretty bad time."

"I'm not-"

He was cut off by somewhere clearing their throat, and they both turned to see Felix resting against the wall further down the hall. The mercenary tilted his head. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Well, yeah," Tucker barked at him, and Simmons felt strangely grateful for the Blue answering Felix. "Aren't you supposed to be looking over your shoulder somewhere else? In case our Lieutenants decide to attack you."

"Oh, I'm sure I would see them coming." The mercenary remained where he was. "So is this you two planning how to take me down? Because that would be entertaining to overhear."

"Oh, fuck you!" Tucker grabbed Simmons by the elbow, starling the Red who let himself be dragged down the hallway, away from Felix. Ducking his head slightly to make sure that the conversation stayed between him and Simmons, he continued in a low voice, "Look, just, I don't know – try harder? If we're going to do this, I can't let you be having a mental meltdown, 'cause I seriously don't know how to deal with that shit."

Of course he didn't. There was only one person who knew what do to when Simmons was freaking out and that person was not here right now.

Simmons took in a deep breath, ignoring how ensnared his throat felt. "I'm gonna work on it."

Tucker looked somewhat relieved, mainly because it seemed like this conversation was about end. Simmons understood – this was almost more uncomfortable than when Donut began to open up about himself.

"Good." The Blue seemed to hesitate, but then finally reached forward to pat him on the shoulder. "We're going to get them back."

"Yeah," Simmons said. It was not really like they had a choice. There was no way that they would stop trying to rescue them.

But that did not mean they would succeed.

"Five days," Tucker said again, running a hand down his face. "Shit, that's not a lot of time. But-" He looked up, meeting Simmons' visor. "That's probably good, I guess. We shouldn't leave them waiting."

Simmons realized the Blue was awfully right. While five days seemed like no time in order to train their men (and girl) it was still five more days that their friends should endure in captivity.

For one brief second, Simmons broke his own rules and wondered what Grif was going through right now.

Later that day, when he woke up heaving for air after a nightmare, he really wished he would have left those thoughts alone.

* * *

And somewhere, so far away from the Rebels' HQ, Sarge was opening his mouth to speak his thoughts.

"Dirtbags! Each and every one of 'em! The soldiers: dirtbags! The medics: dirtbags! That good-for-nothin' mercenary, who shoots a man when he ain't even lookin': you best believe he's a numero uno dirtbag! And you..." He turned his head to stare at some random guard who was just happening to be standing a bit too close to Sarge. "You know what you are...?"

The guard never answered. Understandable, of course. Grif sighed, trying to ignore the way Sarge's voice was worsening his headache, the way his back still hurt and the way the handcuffs seemed to gnaw through his gauntlets.

"The anticipation is killing me," Grif said sarcastically. "I can hardly contain the excitement."

Then he closed his eyes as Sarge proceeded to call the guard a dirtbag.

* * *

A/N: This is when you ask: then how the fuck did Bitters end up as Donut's Lieutenant and not Matthews? Well, my dear friends, that is a very good story – which will be told in another chapter. This story contains quite a bit of time jumps, my apologies, but it keeps the plot flowing. I hope you can keep up, if not, let me know.

So next time we get to hear what the fuck Grif has been up to. Teaser – he thinks things suck.

And for those this might concern – I finally got a tumblr account, where you guys can prompt me stuff if you feel like it, and where I'll be posting the illustrations I have made for "As Seasons Pass" whenever I got bored. I'm called riathedreamer on tumblr (big surprise there!)


	3. It's a Cold, Cold World

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _It's a Cold, Cold World_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used with object,**_ **to cause to doubt or waver; weaken.]**

* * *

"This sucks," was the first thing that Grif said when he woke up. Well, that would have been the first thing he said, had his skull not felt like it was filled with porridge instead of brain, and if his tongue did not feel like a foreign limb, unable to move the way he wanted. So, actually, the first thing Grif said was, "Shish shush."

When he opened his eyes, he was immediately blinded, so that was wasted effort. It seemed like there were hands all over his body, pulling off armor, and when the pieces were removed the air felt chill against his warm skin. Someone grabbed his shoulder, turning him over to lie on his side.

He could not help but attempt to curse when they proceeded to poke the area around the burning spot on his back.

"Oh, there's the culprit!" a joyful voice said, and Grif immediately tensed up. His sluggish brain managed to focus on some few simple facts – things had gone to shit, Grif had not died, the enemies must have taken him, and enemies were not supposed to sound this happy. That could only mean they were about to torture him or some shit.

His theory was almost proven right when they continued to fiddle with his wound, and this time Grif actually managed to get some curses past his lips. They were still muffled and probably did not even count as words, but they did cause the hands to stop poking him.

"He's awake," the voice said, still sounding happy enough to make Grif feel unnerved. He could do nothing as the hands moved further up his body to remove his helmet.

Grif tried to struggle, but they released the clasps with practiced ease, and when Grif blinked, he opened his eyes to stare into a cycloptic visor.

Again, this was all very unnerving.

Even though the visor was supposed to hide all sorts of emotion, Grif could feel the intense stare of the enemy. "Well, that's something I've never seen before!" she chirped before she disappeared from his vision to go poking his back again.

It took some seconds before Grif realized she had been talking about his face, or more exactly, the thick scar that ran down his face, separating two different tones of skin, as well as different colored eyes. Well, he had heard worse comments when it came to his looks. It wasn't like her statement had been false or anything.

Grif's eyelids grew heavy again. He had come to realize that the situation was shitty, but it was not like there was anything he could do about it. That meant he could just as well take a nap. A nap never hurt anybody. In fact, a nap kept you from feeling the pain that was hurting you. A nap was God's gift sent from Heaven to help people escape from all the shit in the world.

The final decision came when his shoulder burst into flames again, and the last of Grif's consciousness was stolen from him.

* * *

"Wakey wakey."

Grif groaned. Sleep was always to be preferred over all the struggles that came with being awake, but today the task of lifting his eyelids was extra difficult. Opening his eyes into tiny slits, he asked with a hoarse voice, not even trying to sound hopeful, "Eggs and bakey?"

"Get up for your own sakey, before I make your head achy, when I slam down my shotgun on your skull for it to breakey."

Pushing himself up by the elbow, Grif replied dryly, "Nice poem, Sarge." After blinking a couple of times to clear out the last blurriness from his vision, he took in their surroundings. "Too bad they took away your shotgun, huh?"

"The nerve of these people! They could just as well have ripped out my heart! If I find as much as a single scratch on her, I swear I'll…" Sarge cut himself off by growling at the thought.

The room tilted a bit when Grif sat up but it stopped after a couple of seconds. In order to keep the dizziness away, he only turned his head very slowly as he eyed the room. There were no windows or decoration on the metal walls, and the door in the corner was definitely locked. They were alone, and they had been given their own cot.

To the left of Grif was Agent Washington, still unconscious with bandages around the back of his head. Grif briefly wondered why Sarge had not bothered to wake him up, but then he realized that poking an out cold Freelancer was probably a _very_ bad idea.

No doubt Sarge would have Grif do it later.

Looking at Wash, Grif suddenly realized they had all been stripped off their armor, leaving them in their black body suit they all wore underneath. Remembering the bright lights and the happy voice and all the poking around his wound, Grif gingerly reached back, pulling sore skin, but realized the area had been patched up neatly.

"Did they fix you up too, Sarge?" he asked, the scene with Sarge falling over replaying inside his mind.

The older soldier huffed as he straightened out his back. "Couple of broken ribs. Aren't nearly as bruised as my pride! Cheaters, I say! Sneaking up on a man who is already facing an enemy – do they expect us to be two-faced? You have to look the man in his eyes as you proceed to blow of his head."

"Fuckers shot me in the back! I wasn't even facing anyone! That's like shooting a civilian!"

"Running away, huh," Sarge snorted. "We can always count on you to do what you do best."

That hurt a bit more than Grif would like to admit. It felt like he was the one with a bruised chest. Narrowing his eyes, he replied, "Hey, we were losing out there! You couldn't just expect us to let them take us. We were fucking ordered to move and-"

"I'm not insulting you for running away," Sarge suddenly said, almost causing Grif to choke on air.

"You're not?"

"I'm insulting you for failing at running away! You literally made what you do best to what you do worst! I sacrificed myself for my men, and you could not even take that opportunity." Sarge shook his head in disgust.

That was not completely fair. Grif had tried to escape – it wasn't his fault that the enemies had snipers. "Hey, we established a long time ago that I suck at running. This really shouldn't be a surprise."

Sarge was frowning so much that his white bushy eyebrows were touching. It occurred to Grif how rare a sight it was to see the Red leader out of his armor, even though they had lived together for years. "And the others?" The question came so quickly, like a short remark, because none of them really wanted to talk about all the weird emotions the separation had caused.

"Made it out," Grif said and looked down at the small thread sticking up from the thin mattress as his left hand began playing with it. "Blew up the cave, so the others couldn't follow. So yeah, they're fine." It suddenly felt weird to see the pale, freckled skin on his left hand. Grif closed his eyes and remembered how the maroon color had made it inside before the rocks covered everything.

Sarge might have been about to reply, but then a mutter came from the now semi-awake Wash. When the Freelancer began to move and turn, Grif could not help but sigh. "So who wants to tell him they took our weapons?"

Grif's relationship with the Freelancer was… complicated. Sure, Wash was probably a good guy – when he wasn't shooting anybody. Grif liked having a Freelancer on their side to defend them against bad guys. Especially now when the bad guys were actual bad guys and not just Doc with a mental breakdown.

So, it kinda sucked when they had been stuck in Valhalla and the Blues had beat the crap out of Reds since Sarge had insisted on playing capture the flag. But Wash had been friendly enough, when he wasn't kicking their asses, and the Blues practically _adored_ him. It wasn't even cute anymore. Just almost sickening.

And they said him and Simmons could bicker.

Speaking of Simmons, there was a reason why Grif was not best buds with Wash. You know, if you looked away from the Freelancer's strange fondness of rules and giving commands and, ugh, exercising.

Because while Grif had long since come to the realization that Wash was no longer trying to kill them, and that was great, like, awesome for them, but still… Grif had spent too many nights staying awake to keep an eye on Simmons whenever the cyborg had suffered from a nightmare where he had seen two of his friends get shot.

And Simmons did stupid shit when he was upset at night. Like punching mirrors or counting their rations or mumbling nonsense to himself. That all meant Grif had to take care of him, telling him to stop whatever stupid shit he was doing and stay in his fucking bed and go to fucking sleep or else he would come over and fucking sit on him to keep him down.

(And now he could not do that because he was stuck here, about to get tortured or some shit, and that meant Simmons was stuck with fucking Donut, and Donut did not know how to calm Simmons down, and Grif just _knew_ the nerd would have a mental breakdown when he realized what had happened the other half of their team. But Grif could not do anything. And that sucked. But at least Simmons had gotten away, Simmons was safe and not about to get tortured and shit, and that was a tiny good thing in the middle of this shitty situation. Simmons would be punching mirrors, but he would be alive.)

But, yeah, it was probably a good thing to have a Freelancer with them, now when they were surrounded by enemies. As long as he did not snap or anything.

Sarge noticed why Grif had turned his head, and now he huffed at Wash, "Rise and shine, buttercup."

Grif saw Wash open one eye, and then immediately close it again, as if hoping this was just a bad dream. _I feel you, buddy_ , Grif thought sadly, because they were all stuck here, but Wash was fucking stuck with them, the Reds, and that made his situation a bit worse. Grif had grown used to Sarge by now. He could endure it.

Not knowing what to say, Grif stayed quiet and swung his short legs back and forth while Wash slowly sat up. He looked groggy for a moment, but when he ran a hand through his blond air, his expression seemed to clear up. That was until he pulled on his bandage which caused him to flinch. "Situation?" he asked, voice hoarse but concentrated.

"The situation sucks," Grif replied immediately, but then Wash glared at him in a way that made it clear that _now was really not the time_ , so the chubbier man sighed and tried again, "The others got out, we got sniped. They patched us up, locked us in here, and now we're waiting for… I don't know, the door to open? They didn't really clarify why they want us here."

Wash used a second to store all this information inside that delicate, fragile mind of his. Then he exhaled and lifted his head. "Are you two alright?"

Sarge was the quickest to reply, so Grif let him. "Nothing a Red can't handle. Heh, Grif has had worse in training."

"Fuck you, shotgun," Grif muttered under his breath.

Fortunately, Sarge did not hear him and he continued talking with Wash. "How's that blue, little head of yours?"

"They seem to have stitched it up," came Wash's reply, and Grif could not help but think that the answer did not exactly cover the wide question. But the Freelancer was taking this whole scene very calmly, and that was comforting so far.

As nice as it was just sitting there, not being tortured, Grif could not help but ask, "So any ideas of how to get out of-"

"We should not discuss that now," Wash cut him off quickly, eyes narrowed in suspicion towards the ceiling. "We do not know if we are being watched."

"Oh." That thought had not even grazed Grif. Probably because he was a draftee, not a fucking Freelancer. "Does that mean if I complain loud enough, they might come by with some cheese burgers?"

"That means," Wash said through gritted teeth, "they might be trying to collect all the information they can, in order to make their later interrogation as effective as possible."

"And by _interrogation_ you mean _torture_ ," Grif concluded, crossing his arms and making sure his expression revealed none of his thoughts when it came to said interrogation method.

Wash met his eyes. "Possibly."

"We will never talk!" Sarge huffed from his cot. "We've got backbone, loyalty, and most importantly – we don't even know the questions!"

"Then why patch us up if they're just going to fuck up our bodies again?" Grif asked, honestly curious and secretly crossing his fingers that he had been right about his theory, because it would be pretty nice to skip the painful parts of their stay here.

"It is not uncommon to provide medical attention to the prisoners if they want them to remain alive for as long as possible to secure more answers."

"Wow," Grif said, voice dry. "You sure sound optimistic. Thanks for the pep-talk."

Wash looked like he was about to say something for a second, but then he sighed instead. "Sorry," he muttered as he ran a hand across his face. "You might be right."

"Wouldn't mind not meeting that Locus-dude again. Creepy as fuck," Grif said, holding back a shudder. But he kept reminding himself that he had had worse. There was no way this could be worse than Basic Training. _That_ was torture.

Wash's eyes kept jumping from Grif to Sarge and then back again. "What is important now is that we stay together and-"

"Isn't that a bit late?" Grif asked him with a roll of his eyes. "We already lost half of the team. So, what? We're gonna wait for them to save us, 'cause that's gonna take some time, or are we-?"

He was interrupted, not by Wash this time, but by the clicks coming from the door, revealing it was about to be unlocked. In a flash (seriously, how could someone move that fast?) Wash was on his feet, facing the entrance. Grif and Sarge both left their cot as well, placing themselves some inches behind the Freelancer.

It felt odd not have a weapon in his hands, so Grif settled with turning his hands into fists.

Grif was not sure if Wash had been planning on fucking pouncing on the enemy when the door opened, but no matter what the plan had been, it was halted when three armed soldiers stepped inside, rifles aiming at their heads.

Trying his best not to show just how he was gulping, Grif's eyes flickered towards Wash.

Another soldier stepped inside the room, putting down a crate filled with well-known colored armor. The soldier straightened out his back as he faced them. "We've been instructed to order to you to put this on. Your weapons have been removed and you will be handcuffed before leaving this room."

"And if we refuse?" Wash asked, obviously testing waters.

None of the soldiers replied but their lifted rifles said enough.

It took a while for them to get the armor on their sore bodies, and they were closely watched the entire time. As the cuffs clicked in place around their wrists, Wash asked, "Are you taking us to Locus?"

"We are taking you to our General," was the reply and then they gestured for them to start moving.

Trying to get used to the new pressure on his wrists, Grif wondered what kind of man could have control over Locus, and he thought, _oh shit_.

* * *

 _Oh shit_ , Grif thought again when said General weakly raised a hand before falling over in the same manner that Grif would collapse on his second lap around the base.

"Wow," the orange soldier before lifting his glance towards Wash who had loosened grip on his weapon in pure surprise. "Nice job, dude."

"I-" First then the Freelancer picked up on the sarcasm. "What?"

"You just knocked out the good guy out without even touching him!"

"We don't know if he's a good guy," Wash replied, tilting his head towards the fallen general. "As far as I'm concerned, we don't know _anything_."

Grif shrugged. It was oddly comforting to be holding a weapon again, though he had always complained to Simmons about how sore his arms would become from carrying their rifles around fucking _everywhere_. "Well, that is the guy who gave us back our weapons and uncuffed us, and if you had kept him awake, he might even have given us food. I don't know if he's a good guy, but I really don't think he's a bad guy."

"Are we sure he's not a dead guy?" Sarge asked, taking a step forward as if about to nudge the still body with his foot. "I haven't seen this little movement since the day Grif tried to take a nap by playing dead."

"Hey, I was suffering from a fucking heatstroke and I would have died hadn't Simmons fetched me some water," Grif muttered, ignoring the jab of _something_ that bothered him when he mentioned Simmons' name. Probably because he had never really thanked the nerd.

The guard Sarge had called a dirtbag shifted the weight on his feet awkwardly. "You can go outside and wait. They'll have him back up in a minute."

There was something in his tone that made it sound like this was the normal routine. "What?" Grif asked, "This happens a lot?"

The poor guy actually sighed. "Yeah…"

Wash seemed like he could use some fresh air so he took the lead as they took the chance to have some personal space. Grif liked the idea of going outside – he really did not want to deal with the passed out guy on the floor - but changed his mind the moment the door closed behind him and he could see their surroundings.

" _No_!" Grif yelled, causing both Wash and Sarge to turn around to stare at him. "No way! What the fuck?!"

"What?" Wash asked, one hand on the metal railing to relax his body a little.

"The snow!" Grif yelled, pointing at the white blanket that surrounded the bunker. "Why did it have to be snow?!"

Wash obviously did not understand the direness of it all. "And the problem with snow is?"

"I'm Hawaiian, dude. I don't do cold." While many things had sucked about Sidewinder, the snow had definitely been one of them. Especially since Simmons had noticed Grif's unfamiliarness with the white substance and had insisted that the best way to overcome to fear (which, of course, was not a fear. More like uncomfortableness.) by touching it.

Grif had been disappointed that snow did not taste like Oreo filling when it indeed looked it. But then he had made his first snowball, which he had proceeded to throw in Simmons' face, and then snow had become a little bit better.

Still, snow was cold, and therefor this place sucked. Of course would suck. Grif was not sure why he had expected differently.

Wash breathed in through his nose. "That's seriously what you want to complain about right now?"

"Oh, I have a whole list of stuff that makes me unhappy right now. I just settled with snow to save your poor ears. But if you really want me to go through it…"

Wash sighed and turned around to stare at their new surroundings. "I don't understand. None of this makes any sense."

Grif looked down to see the so-called General emerge from the bunker, followed closely by some purple-striped armor. This was not what they had expected. But that was probably a good thing. Especially since Grif had expected torture and pain and death.

So maybe none of this made sense. But when had _anything_ in their lives _ever_ made sense?

…That was actually quite a sad thought when you really thought about it. It probably beat down the whole God-with-a-plan-thing. He would have to mention that to Simmons the next time they could bring up that argument again.

Which would hopefully be soon. Grif just hoped the nerd was stuck in a situation a lot less confusing than this.

* * *

"I don't care what you think you are. You just stay the hell away from me and my men."

Grif was very close at coming to the conclusion that Freelancers were fucking suicidal. The way Wash just decided to have an up-close face-off with Locus… pretty damn crazy. Still, even Grif could not deny that weird, strangely comforting feeling when Wash referred to them as his men.

They were all stuck here, but Wash was the only one who had been separated from all his teammates, if you believed in the whole red versus blue thing.

Grif was surprised that Sarge wasn't barking out loud about how he hadn't turned Blue yet, and the Red leader's silence could only mean that he was a bit touched as well. Fucking _weird_.

Then Locus spoke again, immediately causing Grif to pay attention. "You still don't understand. Or perhaps… you do."

"What?"

No one knew if Locus was going to explain himself, as the purple-striped soldier suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, effectively stopping the argument. Her feminine voice was high-pitched and somewhat familiar and… what the fuck?

"Excuse me! If someone tells you to leave them alone, you leave them alone."

It was almost like seeing a little, puffy Chihuahua barking at a full-grown, snarling Great Dane. And, surprisingly, the Great Dane pulled away. "...Of course, Doctor."

Locus then turned to face Wash again, offering him what looked like some sort of computer chip. "Here."

"What is this?" Wash asked, and Grif comforted himself with the fact that the Freelancer also seemed confused as hell about all this.

"Before your droid was dismantled I had a technician remove its primary storage unit. Its _heart and mind_ , so to speak."

Great. So they could have the fucking killer robot with them, but not Simmons and the others?! Was Grif the only person who found all this crazy?!

"Is this supposed to be some sort of apology?" Wash asked, but accepted the storage unit nonetheless.

"Is it?" Locus asked.

Grif had to hold back a snort. "Someone likes being vague and mysterious."

Lopez seemed to be agreeing with him (Maybe. Perhaps. Who knew?). "Se debe a que está loco."[That's because he's insane.] Ah, who hadn't missed Lopez' Spanish? No one. The answer was no one. Lopez could be blown to pieces and then put together again, but he was still stuck with his retarded speech unit. That made no sense.

Locus turned towards the robot and fucking _growled_ , "I am not!"

"ALARM! MIERDA. ES BILINGÜE. POR FAVOR NO ME MATES." [HOLY SHIT. HE'S BILINGUAL. PLEASE DON'T KILL ME.] Lopez was freaking so much out that Grif wondered if blinking, red alarm lights would pop out from his shoulders next. What the hell had Lopez called the guy?

At least Locus pulled away to face Wash instead. "You give meaning to meaningless objects and meaningless people, and risk your lives to protect them. Where's the sense in that? ...I look forward to your answer, soldier."

Grif had to resist the urge to flip him the finger. It was probably the fear holding him back. Or his fondness of being alive. He had been called meaningless and useless and worse things before (mostly from Sarge, or any other superior he had served under. Oh, and his mother had insulted him too before disappearing. Grif knew how to feel loved.), but hearing it from that menacing, monotone voice of Locus made his gut twist a bit.

Locus then left, severely loosening the tension in the air, and it suddenly felt like they could all breathe in deeply again.

That was until the doctor stepped forward, and they all had to pay attention again. "Sorry about that. I promise the rest of us aren't like him. I'm Dr. Grey." She sounded happy. Like, _happy_ happy. Wasn't that illegal or something when you were in the middle of a bloody civil war?

"Wait," Grif sad, narrowing his eyes behind his visor. "Are you a doctor like Doc or are you like a _doctor_ doctor?" He still remembered the fingers poking his wound. Still, it had been cleaned up and bandaged, and it honestly did not really trouble him that much any longer.

Sarge chuckled, and not in the menacing way he would use whenever he had come up with a new way to punish Grif. "You a civilian, little lady?"

"Civilian?" She leaned her head back to laugh. What was with all that happiness all of the sudden? "I don't think you realize how bad this planet's gotten! The only people not wearing armor these days are dead!" She laughed again, and Grif was not sure if it was the sound of that or just the sheer meaning behind her words that gave him goosebumps. He shared a quick glance with Sarge who seemed to have caught up on the weirdness as well.

"I know you," Wash said, apparently realizing she was not just _a_ doctor, but _their_ doctor. "Your voice?

"Is that so? Oh, well I performed surgery on you after they brought you here. Sorry if you find a few new scars. A shot from a Concussion Rifle isn't bad, but a severe injury to the back of the skull can be a little tricky. Especially when your head is filled with pretty little wires and chips. I hope I didn't damage those neural implants."

"I'm sure they're fine. Thank you."

Grif squinted as he turned his head to look at Wash. He really hoped the Freelancer was right, because Grif did seriously not know what to do about broken neural implants. Hell, he was not even sure what a neural implant was in the first place.

"You can thank me by ending this war as soon as possible! Bullet wounds and prosthetic limbs have become so booooring."

Yep, Grif thought to himself. _Boring_ was the right word. Now was the time for Lopez' alarm lights to start blinking.

The doctor continued as cheerful as before, "So, come by my office tomorrow morning for a checkup. Once you're cleared, you three will be shipping off."

"Shipping off?" Sarge asked, and Grif followed him up with a, "Where to?"

"I don't give people orders boys, I just fix them when they break! Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be back. Tomorrow morning. My office. 0800."

They waited with sharing their thoughts until she was completely out of hearing-range. Sarge was the first to speak. "Mmm. Well, what do you fellas think? "

"Crazy," Grif stated flatly, crossing his arms. "Batshit, fucking crazy."

Sarge looked like he was about whack him over the head with his shotgun (seriously, who had given him back that thing?!) "Not the doc, Grif, the army! The general! The whole deelio! Donut and Simmons are out there with the Blues! Alone, confused! Probably taking a bubble bath, and talking about feelings, and offering manicures! God damn it, Donut, stop making people uncomfortable!"

Grif turned his head to look at Wash since he was the only person whose opinion he really wanted to hear at the moment. The Freelancer tightened his grip on his weapon. "We do what we have to, and go along with it for now." He sighed before continuing, "I just hope the others aren't in too deep without us."

Immediately, both Grif and Sarge let out this weird _eh_ noise, revealing they were cringing. Even Lopez seemed to be uncomfortable. Wash noticed their reactions and asked, "What?"

"Hey, you can't use the phrase _be in too deep_ when you are talking about Donut. You're making it weird," Grif told him flatly because, seriously, this was a well-known fact.

"Oh," Wash said, but did not have the chance to defend himself, since Sarge decided to speak.

"For once I, unfortunately, have to agree with Grif," he huffed. "Just because we lost a man doesn't mean you can go ahead and try to replace him."

"I didn't-"

Sarge cut Wash off easily, "If anything, try to be like Simmons. I wouldn't mind having my boots polished again."

"I- _Never mind_." It was almost impressive that Wash hadn't snapped at Sarge yet. "I'm just saying I hope they are alright."

"What?" Grif asked dryly. "You're expecting Simmons _not_ to take orders from the first superior he sees? And for Tucker not to play a hero? For Donut not to get killed – _again_? Caboose not to be an idiot?"

"He has a point," Sarge said, agreeing with him for the second time today, and not it was just getting creepy.

"Todos son idiotas." [You're all idiots.]

Poor Wash was now stuck with being the leader who had to calm down the masses. At least he tried. "I know this is a bitter pill to swallow but-"

Shit.

 _Shit_.

Grif's hands fumbled their way to his armor's pockets. They could not have removed them, right? They were not dangerous, not like the kind you would see in war movies where they would cause foam around the mouth and then death.

These were the pills that kept him alive. Ciclo-something. (this was the point where Simmons would show up and correct him, and then Grif would tell Simmons that nobody cared.) Grif would take one every morning, and every fucking morning Simmons would ask him if he had taken his pills, and Grif would reply, "Yes, mom." Simmons would bitch about it if he swallowed it dry, so the cyborg made sure there was a cup of coffee ready for the time Grif would finally leave bed. It was kinda weird if you thought too much about it, especially the time where Donut had asked why he had not made coffee for him as well and Simmons had blushed so much it could be seen through the armor.

But they were still here, the two packages he had left, tucked away safely.

Grif let out a sigh of relief, and when he looked up he saw that all his teammates had their visor turned towards him. They had probably all noticed his distressed body language, and since Wash would never let anything go unnoticed, he had to ask, "What?"

Shrugging, Grif closed the small pocket. "Had to check if they had stolen my cigarettes. You know how hard it is to get those?"

"Priorities, Grif," Wash barked.

The orange soldier let his visor hide a smile. "All sorted, Wash."

Maybe it was a good thing they were stuck in a place with a (mad) doctor. Ever since the ship crash his supply of pills had been dwindling for obvious reasons. It had only been because they had so many other things to worry about, that Simmons had not noticed this. Grif had let him panic about their food supply instead. Just something to keep the cyborg's head busy with.

But now as the chance for a refill. He just had to ask the crazy doctor.

But first tomorrow. As in _early_ tomorrow. Fucking 8 am.

If these guys were really trying to make up for shooting them, they could at least let them sleep late.

* * *

They showed up on time, though, since they all seemed to agree that it was best not to go against a mad doctor's orders. Sarge had been the one to wake up Grif, threatening to grab him by the shoulder and shake him, and since Grif was not a big fan of reopening wounds, he had grudgingly left the bed.

This was probably a good thing for Sarge since Doctor Grey was strangely interested in their healing wounds, and if Sarge had messed up the work she had done on Grif, he was pretty sure Sarge would be the one in trouble.

Now she was poking at the back of Wash's head again, and Grif could see how his eyes narrowed in annoyance the longer she kept touching it. She had to be careful not to hit a nerve. Quite literally.

"Well, everything looks fine here," she concluded before putting the bandages back in place. "Tell me if you experience any sharp pains in the area."

Grif had already been through his checkup, and he had still not asked about the pills. Probably because he was not so fond of the scenario where she said no. So he stuck with one of his favorite strategies of all time – postponing.

While the almost healed wound did not hurt, it fucking itched, and was reaching over his should with his good arm when –

" _No scratching_!" Grey fucking screamed in such a high-pitched tone that Grif jumped at the sound. The doctor was currently checking Sarge's ribs, her back turned towards Grif, and he had not fucking clue of how she had even seen him raise his hand.

Scowling, Grif stopped what he was doing. Then he realized three things: it was still itching so fuck it, he had always hated doctors so fuck it, and the Feds were not his friends so fuck it.

Reaching back again, Grif was just touching the bandages when a cheerful voice told him, "You know, I am capable of sewing your hand stuck to your thigh. It's a very small procedure – only about 15 stitches." Her back was still turned to him. It was downright creepy.

But Grif understood the threat and so he let his hand fall. He even caught an amused glimmer in Wash's eyes, and Grif made sure to make the best scowl his face could muster.

"Is there any chance you could sew up his mouth while you are at it? Would help him get rid of some fat, and it'll save me some future headaches. I say it'd be an improvement to all of our health," Sarge said, sending the doctor a smile.

When Grey had finished poking at Sarge's torso, and Grif took his chance. Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he asked, "So, uhm, I'm sure you've noticed this." He gestured towards his patchwork skin. "And I'm kinda running low on the pills I'm supposed to take-"

"Ciclosporin?" she asked, and it sounded like the thing Simmons would say, so he just nodded. "Oh, we have a bunch of them lying around. Transplanted organs aren't something you see so often on Chorus. Not that we don't have a lot of dead people – the organs just usually have bullets in them." She laughed in the same weird manner as yesterday. "I'll make sure a couple of packages will be brought to you. I didn't know your scars went beyond skin drafts. You just made me curious – what kind of organs did you receive?"

"Uhm…" Grif was pretty sure the list was long, and he had not exactly been awake to see the surgery himself. "I think you have to ask Sarge."

Said soldier shrugged, "Oh, a bit of everything. Some kidneys, a heart, a lung here and here. Basically we took all the healthy red stuff we could find and stuffed it down in there."

So Sarge was the real mad doctor. His description of the surgery made Grif feel very uneasy. "I'm surprised you didn't kill me by accident," he muttered under his breath. "Wait, scratch that – I'm surprised you didn't just kill me on purpose."

Wash was frowning, as if it was the first time he'd been told this story. It probably was. Grif doubted Tucker would run around bragging about the time he drove over Grif with a tank.

"How fascinating!" Doctor Grey finally tore her visor away from Grif's scars to stare at Sarge instead, "Oh, you're a fellow surgeon?"

Sarge straightened out his back, looking strangely proud. "Ma'am, I'm a man of many talents. Surgeon is just another small word on my resume. Don't mind his brain – he was like that before I began working on him."

Grif is about to shout back an insult when he noticed how weird Sarge was acting. He was still smiling, though it was certainly not directed at Grif. In fact, the old man's rough expression seemed to be softened when he was glaring at Grey's visor, and Grif could not remember a single time he'd ever been able to describe Sarge with the word _soft_. It was fucking weird, and Grif was wondering if Sarge was drugged on painkillers when the pieces finally fell in place.

He looked at Sarge. Then at Grey. Then back at Sarge and then at Grey, and then back at Sarge again.

 _Holy fucking fuck._

"I think I'm gonna vomit," he groaned, wondering if Wash had spotted the connection as well.

But complaining about it turned out to be a very wrong thing to do, since a bin was immediately placed between his legs. "Oh, dear. Nausea is one of the telltale signs of a concussion. Maybe we should have checked your brain yesterday."

"I've been saying that ever since the day he was given to my squad!"

"I'm not-" Grif tried to explain but was silenced when a thermometer was shoved into his mouth.

He had to spend another hour in her office to get his brain checked.

Neither Sarge nor Wash attempted to rescue him.

Grif really missed Simmons.

* * *

A/N: Snort. I love that I got to use the words _Great Dane._ 'cause we all know I'm the great Dane. 'cause I'm a Dane and I'm great. …I like lame jokes, okay?

I don't think I've ever written this much Wash dialogue before. I'm Red to the core, and I don't really have much experience for writing Blue. I hope they still seem to be in character, otherwise let me know.

I am just so _freaking_ happy with this chapter. I don't know why. It was just so easy to write. The jokes, the situations – it all just felt so natural. I wrote this entire chapter in a couple of days because it just _worked_. I haven't been this happy with a chapter since chapter four of "As Seasons Pass" (You know, the one with the a-hole/ a hole joke. Proudest moment of all my writing).

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! Sorry for the wait, but I hope it was worth it!


	4. Bitter(s) Pill

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _Bitter(s) Pill_

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used with object,**_ **to** **grasp** **(someone** **or** **something)** **firmly** **in** **an** **attempt** **to** **move** **or** **rouse** **by,** **or** **as** **by,** **vigorous** **movement** **to** **and** **fro]**

* * *

Simmons was aware that he was wasting too much time on watching Bitters from the corner of his eye. But, honestly, someone had to keep an eye on the Lieutenant. And Donut was certainly not doing a good job with supervising his soldier.

Had he looked after him, he would have seen how Bitters skipped his duty at every opportunity. Yesterday Simmons had seen the Lieutenant napping behind a crate when he was supposed to be running laps. The day before he had seen him pretending to do pushups. It had been obvious that he had not even been lifting his finger, and Donut had not said a thing.

Oh, wait, Donut had been hovering above the soldier, saying he wanted to see him rise.

Simmons should not have expected anything else.

And whenever Simmons had tried to confront the Lieutenant about his behavior, he had been shrugged off with a "meh" or "okay" or "sure". The next day Bitters would be sitting in the mess hall when he was supposed to be standing attention in the training hall.

He was a thorn in Simmons' side, and the cyborg's annoyance was growing bigger each day. And the worst part of it all was the fact that he was supposed to be Donut's thorn in the side.

But the pink soldier was not annoyed. He was calm. Simmons had caught him smiling at his men. Donut was fucking hopeful.

…Simmons really wished he could be like Donut.

Donut who could almost die again and again, only to rise from the ground, brush the dust of his armor, complain about bloodstains, but then go on about his life with no grudges or panic attacks or dark thoughts.

Donut's men were constantly complaining about their armor color or some other problem in their life. They were gloomy. Undisciplined. But the more time Donut spent with them, they changed.

Simmons could see it happening like some spring flower bursting through the snow. Okay, that was Donut's description of it. But still, it was strange to behold.

Because even though Donut made them uncomfortable and caused them to cringe, his positive attitude also gave them hope.

Donut was talking about his men as Simmons swirled his spoon around in the porridge. The grey substance did not exactly improve the cyborg's already little appetite. "I'm telling you, I saw so much improvement yesterday. They get the job done quickly and neatly. I was very satisfied afterwards."

Simmons did not feel like talking about their training sessions results, so he stayed quiet. From the corner of his eye, he watched Bitters pick up his breakfast from the mess hall's desk. Another soldier in pinkish armor was walking beside him. Even from the distance Simmons could see how Bitters had taken enough porridge for the top to be seen over the edge of the bowl. Definitely more than the amount they should be given.

"You know, they have a limited food supply here," Tucker said. He was sitting next to Simmons since the four Captains had agreed to stay together during meals. Familiar faces were comforting. Even if some of the faces belonged to Blues.

"Yeah," Simmons replied bitterly as he kept looking at Bitters. Had Donut even noticed his soldier was taking more than the permitted amount? His soldier could cause a starvation. He should be punished.

Tucker was still glaring at him. "Then stop massacring your breakfast and it eat. Even Caboose can do it. This meal doesn't even require knife and fork. Just a spoon. It should be pretty fucking easy, dude."

Oh. So he had been talking about Simmons. Not Bitters. Oh.

The cyborg blinked, slowly tearing his eyes away from Pink Lieutenant to stare at his own breakfast instead. The bowl of porridge was still untouched. "I'm not hungry." Of course Tucker did not know that Simmons was used to Grif eating at least 20 percent of his meals. Donut knew. And Donut never complained about Simmons not finishing his dish. He would just offer to save the meal for later in case Simmons would grow hungry.

Tucker's spoon was clanking against the bottom of his bowl when he took another spoonful of porridge. Almost finished, then. "I'm just saying that's a waste of resources."

Simmons had heard that argument before. A lot, actually. It was one of Grif's favorites. The cyborg raised an eyebrow. "You want to eat my leftovers?"

The Blue frowned. "No, I want _you_ to eat them."

Trying his best not to look like a scowling toddler, Simmons filled his mouth with the grey substance. It tasted just as bad as yesterday's breakfast. Still keeping his head low, he tried to spot Bitters again, but the Lieutenant seemed to have disappeared from the mess hall.

Caboose had used his spoon to create balls of porridge which he had now proceeded to stack on top of each other. "I made a snowman!" he said proudly, jabbing Simmons' with his elbow.

…Grif used to make snowmen.

The only reason Simmons kept from letting his head fall face-first into his bowl of breakfast was the sheer disgustingness of the porridge.

"So sticky," Donut said, still sounding happy.

Simmons was sure Grif would have eaten the whole bowl anyway.

* * *

The first day the Captains began to train their elite squad, a lot of drama happened. The Lieutenants had not even begun to introduce themselves when Donut let out his first shocked gasp.

To be honest, Simmons could see the problem in having two Lieutenants in the same armor. Probably because he could no longer spot his own soldier. "Uhm… Jensen?"

"Here, sir!" one of the maroon-armored soldiers lisped and raised a hand. Definitely Jensen.

Tucker tilted his helmet towards the other Lieutenant in maroon, the one with crossed arms. "So that's-"

"Bitters!" Donut exclaimed, spreading out his arms to he nearly hit Simmons' visor. The cyborg took a step back. "What happened to your armor?!"

"I-"

"Did you accidently wash it with the armors from Simmons' squad? Happened to me too – you have no idea of how much of my clothes have been discolored whenever Sarge decided to just throw in one of his red t-shirts as well!"

"You don't wash armor like that, Donut," Simmons grumbled.

"Well, how else are you going to get the bloodstains off?" Donut asked with an offended voice. He then turned his head back towards Bitters. "I'll make sure you'll get a new armor afterwards."

"No need for the trouble." Simmons could _hear_ how hard Bitters was scowling.

Donut waved the comment off. "You deserve better than that darker red color. No offense, Simmons. And you too, Jensen."

"That's alright, sir."

"It's look good on you. Very slimming," Donut continued, hand on his chin.

Tucker's Lieutenant, the one in greenish, uh, bluish (what the fuck was Tucker's armor anyway?), nodded, "I agree, sir."

After face-palming from that very obvious and cringy attempt to flirt, Tucker exclaimed, "Okay, what the fuck is this shit? A fashion show? Let's just get on with it. Someone, introduce themselves."

"Uhm hello. Ugh, yes, my name is Michael J. Caboose."

"Hi, Michael," the Lieutenants echoed in unison.

"And today I am wearing blue armor."

" _Caboose_ , we are not doing a fashion show!" Tucker barked, and it was immediately followed by Donut's disappointed "aw". The Blue soldier ignored him and turned towards the Lieutenants again, "Someone… Just state your name."

"And a fun fact," Simmons added, his voice too loud and too high-pitched. Tucker turned his head to stare at him like he had grown an extra head. Well, it was probably weird, since Simmons had been quiet for so long and then chose to say the word _fun_.

…Grif had once told him he wasn't allowed to use that word.

But Simmons had been a responsible Captain and had read up on manuals that guided superiors towards better communication. Now he knew how to engage his men. Well, girls, to be exact. You had to include them, make it fun.

And fun facts were fun.

Right?

Things went… _okay_ from there. Well, Jensen almost choked to death on her own spit. But she survived, so that was good. Too many of the rebels had died already, and Simmons really wanted to keep his Lieutenant alive.

But then…

"I'm Bitters. My fun fact is that I don't want to be here," the Lieutenant said firmly, arms crossed, without missing a beat. His chin was raised in defiance, and both Simmons and Tucker looked at Donut for an explanation.

"I thought you said he volunteered?" Tucker asked, and Simmons was wondering about the same thing.

"I didn't," Bitters said harshly. "It's bullshit."

Next to him, Jensen shifted the weight on from one foot to the other. "Well, technically…"

"Jensen, shut up," the other soldier in maroon hissed, and Simmons found another reason to dislike Bitters. No reason to take his, well, bitterness out on Jensen.

Donut clasped his hands together. "Well, you might be less eager about your promotion than you were in the beginning, but you can just consider yourself the chosen one! And don't doubt yourself, Bitters – I know how to pick my men! I'm sure you'll do great!"

There was a second where Bitters just looked at his Captain, but then he let his head hang in defeat. "I don't want to wear pink armor."

"Light-ish red," Donut corrected by instinct. "Don't worry, Bitters, I know you're man enough to fill out that armor! Remember, it's all about attitude."

"Dude, I don't think he's lacking attitude," Tucker snorted.

When Simmons looked at Bitters, he could _sense_ how the young soldier was rolling his eyes. It was like being met by a wave of dismay, uncomfortable hot, with the only purpose of making them feel unwelcome.

The maroon Captain made a mental note of to ask Jensen some questions later, because Simmons had _no fucking idea_ why Bitters had ended up as Lieutenant.

* * *

"This is bullshit," Bitters said as he tore off the armor pieces. While this armor had not been pink, it had been uncomfortable. Too small, especially around the crotch. Fucking girl-armor.

Matthews was still in bed, wiping his red nose with a tissue. You know things were bad when _Matthews_ had to take a sick day. The guy would march into battle while vomiting if he thought it would give him a promotion.

But after days of listening to his fellow soldier coughing, Bitters had literally kicked Matthews' sorry ass to the medics who had sent him to their sleeping quarters with some pills. They could not risk letting him spread the disease.

Bitters had managed to convince him that it didn't matter if he missed training 'cause nothing exciting would happen anyway, and if anything he should just count himself lucky since he was seriously reducing is chances of being shot in the head by staying in their room.

Of course none of them had known that the Captains would pick their Lieutenants that day.

Well, _pick_ probably wasn't the best word to describe the scene.

Matthews sniffled and said, "Did you ask them to fire you?"

"Yes," Bitter grumbled and grew so irritated with his leg piece that he threw it against the wall where it slid down to lie in the corner of the room. "He said I should trust more in myself; that he'd make me a new man."

"And you told him that I'm still volunteering? I'd be ready the second he asks for me. And I'll make a great Lieutenant, you told him that?"

Bitter threw himself on his bed to stare at the ceiling. "Yes." It was always uncomfortable hot in the HQ, especially in their small private quarters with no windows and that one annoying blinking light bulb and the humid, heavy air. And when you finally got out of jungle, there would be fucking snow, and it would be fucking cold, and that was uncomfortable as well.

Chorus was literally just uncomfortable.

"And he wasn't mad that you'd changed armor?" Matthews blew his nose again, and leaned over the edge of his bed to get a better look at his friend's expression.

"He said he'd just get me a new one."

"And did you tell you tried to burn your old armor?"

Bitters turned his head to glare at the sick soldier. "Yes, and it doesn't fucking matter 'cause I'm still stuck with the stupid title and the pink fucking armor." Matthews' face was still flushed from the fever, and after a couple of seconds Bitters realized he shouldn't have taken his anger out on his friend. At least Matthews was stuck in pink armor too.

Or, as he stubbornly continued to call it in order to please their Captain, light-ish red armor.

Matthews stared at his friend for some seconds, but his expression remained gentle. And slightly green. He'd spent entire yesterday throwing up in a bucket. "Well, you sure sound angry."

"I hate my life," Bitters moaned and slammed the back of his head against his pillow.

"At least we have the Captains with us," Matthews offered hopefully.

"Like that's supposed to help," Bitters snorted. "You know they're not really changing anything."

Matthews frowned; a sincere look of despair seeping into his expression for just a second. "But… They _are_. They're training you guys!"

"So what? You count on us to save the planet?" Bitters snorted. "So maybe Smith _could_ but you know he won't. So what – you think me, Jensen and _Palomo_ are your heroes?"

"Weeeeellllll…" Matthews tried to sound hopeful. He really tried. But he ended with a sad frown, and he had to sniff again. "People are, you know, hopeful. We see it as a step forward."

"Forward? Toward what?" Bitters asked, staring at the ceiling again.

"You're gonna save their friends, right? That _is_ the plan."

Bitters rolled his eyes, even though Matthews could not see it. "So? Matthews, you know what Feds do to their enemies."

The sick soldier bit his lip.

They both _knew_.

They'd both lost families. Friends. Learned to carry a gun. They'd both shot at Feds. Seen the Feds shoot back at them.

They _knew_.

"They kill them," Matthews answered, lower lip quivering the same way it would when they visited their injured friends in the hospital floor. Whenever their buried their friends, he would sob openly. "Or torture them. And then they kill them afterwards."

Matthews fell quiet, but Bitters knew that he, like himself, was thinking of Mizner who had trained along them in the beginning and who had been caught on a patrol with two other rebels. When they'd been found, they were all dead, but all of Mizner's fingers were broken and his face had been bruised after numerous hits. Bitters had been among the group to stumble upon the bodies, and he remembered picking up Mizner's helmet before taking the long steps to be close enough to stare at the tearstained face.

"Probably won't matter if we find them anyway," Bitters said quietly. "And if we find them, they're just going to leave."

"No, they won't." Matthews might have tried to convince Bitters further, but he broke into a coughing fit. It lasted for about half a minute and when he finally stopped, his face was even redder than before and he had tears in his eyes.

Bitters looked at him quietly before shrugging. "It's not their war."

"Captain Donut says they'll do whatever they can to help us. And you heard Kimball – they're spreading hope every day. We can see ourselves in them."

"You can see yourself in Donut?" Bitters asked, an eyebrow raised. While his voice was flat, he could not stop the corner of his mouth from creating an amused smirk.

Matthews' face somehow managed to become a shade redder. "Well… You know… We all love his optimism." He wiped his nose again before saying, "I'm sure there's a part of Donut inside of you as well."

Bitters groaned and rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. "Why the fuck are you sounding like him?"

"I… uh… Well, I've spent a lot of time observing Captain Donut so it's only natural that…" When Matthews heard Bitters grunt into his pillow, he rolled his eyes, and after a sneeze, he said, "Just wait. You're his Lieutenant – he's bound to rub off on you."

The pillow hid his grimace. "I didn't choose to-"

"But you did take a step forward," Matthews pointed out, and there was a bitter tone in his voice that would normally belong to his fellow soldier. But it was no secret that his dreams had been crushed when he had not received the title – and it did not make it better that Bitters of all people now could call himself Lieutenant. And that he wasn't even a tiny bit proud of it.

The day Matthews found out about it all, Bitters had found him with teary, red eyes that could not just be explained by his cold.

With his grey eyes narrowed, Bitters rolled over to stare at him, "You know I didn't. The others took a step backwards."

"At least this can serve as a lesson for you to never turn off your helmet's audio again," Matthews told him, sounding so smug that Bitters stopped feeling sorry for his sick ass for a moment.

Bitters didn't blame himself. He didn't blame Matthews either, since he hadn't been present. He blamed the universe but he's been flipping that thing off for a long time now. They just seemed to hate each other.

And then there were his stupid-ass teammates who had been smart enough to take a step backwards when Captain Donut had asked for a volunteer to the position of being his Lieutenant. They had all earned nicknames from being forced to wear pink armor, but no one was ready to be called Lieutenant Pink.

Donut had turned his back to them for a second, ranting about needing a hard and ready soul for the job, but Bitters had heard none of it. Unwilling to sacrifice even more of his sanity, he had turned off the audio in his helmet and replaced it with the soundtrack Mizner had managed to download from _somewhere_ before his death.

So when Donut had turned around, Bitters had been standing out from the crowd, as if he had wanted that stupid title. And when Bitters had opened his eyes, Donut had been giving him a thumbs-up. When the young soldier had managed to turn on the volume, the Captain had been announcing that he'd found his Lieutenant.

So yeah.

Bitters had learned his lesson.

"They'll have to fire me," Bitters said, a bit darkly. If switching to maroon armor did not work, he already had other plans. He had not gone through all the shit in his life to get stuck with the nickname Pinkie.

Matthews wrinkled his nose in disgust before throwing another tissue in the trashcan that for practical reasons had been moved closer to his bed. "Be careful you don't just get stuck on dish duty." Crawling under his blanket, he continued his strategy that would lead him back to good health as quickly as possible.

Bitters knew too well that Matthews did not fall asleep easily. He would often spent at least half an hour writing notes to the strategies they had been taught during the day or ask rhetorical question about which skills the Captains appreciated in their men.

Still, Bitters waited a couple of minute before speaking again. He was only saying it because Matthews had demanded to get debriefed at the end of the day so he would not miss out on any news. "News came in earlier: Bradner and Meagher are dead."

The form huddled beneath the blanket remained still, but a low sound escaped from it, almost like a dry sob. Bitters had heard it before.

Now when he was sure Matthews was awake, Bitters continued, "Fucking Feds ambushed them while they were trying to secure more info about the current state of the Captains' friends. Carlson made it back." He kept staring at the blinking light bulb. It was giving him a headache.

Matthews did not say anything. He did not need to – did not need to. They had gone over situations like this before. This was Chorus. People died. Especially young soldiers.

Cunningham and Rogers had died just some days ago. Bitters had heard it from Palomo – Captain Tucker had not addressed the losses yet, at least not in front of the other Lieutenants.

…And the Captains had probably never even heard the names Mizner, Bradner and Meagher before.

Closing his eyes in an attempt to take a nap, Bitters convinced himself that he was fairly sure that Donut at least would remember his name if he died.

* * *

While Bitters did lack numerous skills that were required from a soldier, Simmons had to give it to him that he was stubborn. After skipping his duties in as many different ways as possible, plus the whole maroon armor stunt, the Lieutenant had taken the step further.

"Where's your armor?" Simmons asked, honestly confused because people here could not even take a piss without wearing full body armor. Too many assassinations had made people paranoid. In fact, Simmons had only seen people's faces when they were eating in the mess hall.

He really hoped that the rebels slept outside their armor, though he was actually not a hundred percent sure. After a long day of hard training, Simmons craved the comfort of his bed too much and so he preferred to sleep in his nightwear.

Bitters set his jaw – a motion Simmons was sure he had done a lot of times before, but now, without the helmet, he could for once see it. "Got stains on it. I'm sure Captain Donut will appreciate I'm washing it." There was something in Bitters' tone, the way he spat out the word _Captain_ , that convinced Simmons that stains were not the reason why Bitters was walking outside in dark pants and an orange t-shirt.

Simmons had seen his own girls without helmets a few times – Jensen had, as expected, big bracers – but this was the first time he'd seen Bitters' face. While his expression was mostly expressionless, there was a bored look to it as well, and his brows were furrowed into what looked like a constant scowl.

"Training begins in fifteen minutes," Simmons reminded him. "You can't show up like that."

Bitters shrugged.

Simmons tried to hold back the frustration that was almost causing him to reach out and shake him by the shoulders. "You want to take on Felix without armor? A punch in the face from him hurts, even when you're wearing a helmet."

"You'd know," Bitters said, obviously referring to Simmons catastrophic attempt to take down Felix yesterday. When he realized he'd probably sounded too cocky, the Lieutenant added, "Sir."

Filled with gratefulness for his helmet, Simmons felt his face go red. Partly due to humiliation, since he'd lost so badly and it had all been filmed and the guards had _laughed_. Partly due to anger since they had to take out Felix, and Bitters was not even trying. To be fair, the entire team sucked, but if Bitters would at least make an attempt…

Each failed attempt decreased their chances of finding Grif – and Sarge, Donut and Wash of course – as soon as possible.

So yeah, Simmons was ready to kick Bitters' ass if it meant he would get going.

"Well, I, you – I'm, I'm sure you'd do just fine against a fist-fight with Felix," Simmons stuttered, trying to sound sarcastic.

Bitters kept staring at him, a lifeless glaze over his eyes. It reminded Simmons of his fellow students back in High School, when they had been sitting in their chair seven hours in a row and looked like they were ready to kill themselves. "You're just wasting your own time, you know," he said with a slight shrug.

"Training is bound to improve your overall fighting skills," Simmons replied flatly. "So if you'd just give a try-"

"Are they even alive?"

The question came from out of nowhere, and Simmons had to blink as if he'd been slapped. "What?"

"Your friends." Bitters had lowered his glance to stare at his worn shoes. "Did Kimball say so? Are they sure?"

"I- Why are you asking that?" Simmons could not hide the panic in his voice, especially not when Bitters' expression changed for a moment, showing he was in deep thought for just a second.

Bitters was making a furrow in the dirt near his feet. "Feds don't usually take prisoners. And people fight 'cause of hope. They're supposed to." When he lifted his head again, there was a challenging look in his eyes, clearly asking for the truth.

Simmons decided to give it to him. At least, he hoped he was. "Kimball was sure."

"Okay," Bitters said, clearly dropping the subject there, but his question had made Simmons' stomach twist from a growing doubt.

Just another reason to despise Bitters. Gulping once, Simmons tried to find a stable voice. "This is not a suicide mission, Bitters," he said, and wondered if he was talking to himself. He tended to do that when he was nervous. Just to remind himself that things were going to be alright. Which they were. Of course. They could do this.

"But you're counting on us to succeed?" Bitters reminded him with a roll of his eyes.

"It'd help if you'd stop playing some foolish maverick and put on your armor," Simmons snapped. The hard tone caused Bitters to narrow his eyes, and Simmons realized this was definitely not the fastest way to get Bitters motivated.

The Lieutenant had just opened his mouth to retort when someone cleared their throat behind them. They both turned their head to see Felix walking towards them, hands in the air, head tilted. "Truce?" he offered, and the two soldiers both nodded without sharing a glance. "Wouldn't want you guys to get the jump on me."

They all knew that would never be the case.

Felix placed himself next to Simmons, eying Bitters closely. "I see someone is feeling particularly suicidal today. You want to get shot in the head?"

The Lieutenant straightened out his back. "I don't care," he mumbled, not wanting to lose the argument.

"Look, as much as we appreciate your willingness to sacrifice yourself, which we do, really, save it for the battlefield."

Bitters' cheeks reddened just a tiny bit, revealing that Felix' words hit him harder than Simmons'.

The mercenary snorted, knowing the younger soldier would follow his orders. "Go find your armor, kid."

Even though he did not answer, the way Bitters let his shoulders fall revealed he'd finally given up. "I repainted it," he muttered. "I'm _not_ wearing pink."

"Look, I honestly don't care if your armor is more colorful than the rainbow or if you've painted a bullseye on your own back." He gestured towards Simmons. "If a Captain gives you an order, you follow through."

Bitters bit his lip before answering stiffly, "Yes, sir." He slowly turned around to disappear into the armory.

Simmons watched him go with a sigh. He had just lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck when he remembered he was wearing a helmet. "I don't understand why Donut insists on keeping him as a Lieutenant," he mumbled.

"They all have some fire inside of them," Felix said lightly. "War tends to do that. Look, soldiers like Bitters didn't really sign up. If they remember any family, they're far gone. The friends they have are dying every day. Maybe once Bitters had a dream of finding a girl, take an education, become a baker-"

"Bitters wanted to be a baker?" Simmons asked in disbelief, unable to imagine the soldier in that position. Honestly, he was having trouble imaging Bitters doing any kind of work.

Felix shrugged. "How the fuck should I know? I'm just creating an example here. Bitters, Palomo, all the soldiers you've training – pretty much lost everything to the war. They want it over. So that's why you are here, to spread some pretty, little inspiration inside of them so they can fight harder. How was it Kimball put it? They see you guys are losers just like themselves –"

"Misfits," Simmons corrected him in a low voice.

"-and you'll have the army you need. Eventually. Uhm, hopefully."

Simmons thought about that for some seconds. A horrible realization hit him. "I don't really think Bitters can see himself in Donut. I don't really think anyone can see themselves in Donut. Donut is… special?" Then again, Smith was practically worshipping Caboose, so someone calling Donut a glorious Captain was probably not impossible. He went to rub his hand against his face, but was stopped by the visor. "It would've worked with Grif. I mean, not like him and Bitters would get anything done, but…"

"Why is it both you and Tucker sound like a kicked puppy when you bring up the others?" He chuckled shortly, and Simmons froze. "Oh, I know," Felix continued. "A shame that's how it all went down. But if it serves for a reason for you guys to try harder, I won't complain."

Simmons almost choked on his own tongue. He wondered if that was what Jensen experienced daily. "I…" He honestly did not know how to reply to that. To any of it. "We'll – we'll be ready," he finally managed stutter, trying to make it sound as a stern promise. "Wait and see."

Felix was about to answer, but then he turned his head. He tilted his helmet back to chuckle darkly. "The universe does have a cruel humor."

Simmons followed his line of sight, and finally spotted what was supposed to be funny.

Bitters had returned.

Now in armor.

Orange-tainted armor.

Simmons' mouth felt very dry.

"Maybe he can function as a substitute," Felix said, still chuckling. Then, under his breath, he added, "Not nearly as fat, though."

There as an echo inside Simmons' brain that reminded him that they needed to take down Felix in order to save their friends. Not that he needed that reason right now. It just happened automatically.

Simmons swung his fist, his left arm in the hope that his cyborg limb would throw a better punch.

It didn't matter, though.

Felix sternly said, "Nope." He ducked, avoided Simmons' swing, and then something hard and painful and _holy fuck that was going to leave a mark_ hit the cyborg's helmet.

When Simmons came to, his vision was swimming. A headache was threatening to crack his skull open, and everything was moving and it was all blurred and he couldn't focus.

He must be lying on his stomach. Of course Felix had knocked him out.

Something was planted right on front of him. Boots, Simmons realized. And they were…

There was something familiar. Orange.

"Grif?" Simmons asked. He'd not been hopeful in what seemed like an eternity, but his dazed condition smashed down the mental walls that were supposed to save his soul from crushing disappointments.

Perhaps he was allowed to have hope after all.

"Who the fuck is Grif?"

Simmons bit back a sob, lowering his head so it was resting against the ground again.

"Go the fuck away, Bitters!" he barked. He wasn't even sure why he was mad anymore.

For once the Lieutenant followed orders right away.

* * *

A/N: I personally like jumping around from character to character in this story. I was especially happy to get the Lieutenants' thoughts about all this.

Thank you for your sweet reviews!

 _Every time_ I think it's going to be a short chapter, it always ends up twice as long as expected. Why? How? _How_?! So, I had to split this chapter up, since I'm aiming for around 4500-7000 words a chapter. I wish I could say this means you'll see the next chapter soon, but I have two exams next week, so I can't promise anything.

Next chapter will include more Bitters, some comfort from Donut, Tucker will finally appear in more scenes, and there'll be hints of Tuckington. Also, alcohol. A lot of it.

Okay, so people who follow me on tumblr might have seen my post where I mentioned how a certain Grimmons scene should have happened in this chapter. However, due to the chapter being split up, the scene is being moved to the next chapter.

Also, happy new year! I personally hate firework and party, so I'm sitting here, writing fanfiction. Kinda sad, actually.


	5. Subconscious Perception

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _Subconscious Perception_

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used without object,**_ **to become dislodged and fall]**

* * *

Donut wrung his hands. He took in a deep breath and raised his hands to adjust his helmet. Then he wrung his hands again.

He had known for a long time that things were wrong. Of course they were. They lacked half of team. Of course things were not alright. Donut could deal with that. No matter how hard things were he would be harder.

But today things were just _bad_. Because things were becoming worse. And Donut had the growing suspicion that he was the only one who could solve it. He was just not sure if he was actually able to do so.

It had all begun when he had literally stumbled upon Simmons. He'd almost stepped on the fallen soldier before he realized that he was not alone. "Simmons?"

His voice caused the maroon body to jerk. "Donut?" Immediately trying to sit up, Simmons straightened out his shaking legs. He was brushing dust off his armor when he suddenly began to sway.

Reacting quickly, Donut reached out to grab his arm. He had to keep his grasp firm and hard in order to keep the soldier upright. "M'fine," Simmons mumbled. "Tried to take on Felix. Hit me in the head and _fuck_."

"I thought we were going to use my strategy today," Donut mumbled as he struggled not to accidently let his friend drop to the ground. "Take him from behind and get him on his knees before he even knows it!"

Simmons groaned and somehow managed to take off his helmet with fumbling hands. There was an ugly, red growing bump near his right eye. Of course Felix had managed to damage to human side of his face. Donut winched at the sight. "Oh, that's a swelling."

Holding a gentle hand against his sore forehead, Simmons kept his eyes low, but his pupils were bouncing back and forth, unable to focus on anything. Donut noticed the redness and the tears waiting to be spilled. "Simmons?"

"The impact must have messed with my cyborg eye." His head stayed lowered as if a string was pulling it towards the ground. "I keep seeing shit. Temperatures and, uh, other numbers."

"Do you need any-?"

"I'll, I'll just go see the mechanists," Simmons muttered. "Can you watch my team 'till I get back?"

"Sure." Donut laughed nervously. "More men is never a problem for me. When do you think you…?" He trailed off when he realized he was speaking with no one. Simmons was already in the other end of the hall, walking away while swaying slightly.

It was when the door closed behind the cyborg that Donut realized his friend was not heading in the direction of the mechanists.

Donut considered going after him. He really did. But he had just promised to look after Simmons' squad, and if Donut left too, then Tucker would have thrice the amount of men he was used to. No offense to Tucker – he probably had a lot of training, but could he really be man enough for that job? Donut didn't think so.

So he would have to deal with Simmons later. Which gave him more time to prep the scene. Simmons would never just open himself – well, if you didn't count his mental breakdowns, but Donut would prefer if his mirror stayed intact.

If they could postpone the talk until tonight, Donut would have the time to adjust the perfect lighting and find the most arousing music so that Simmons could be ready for the moment. He would finally burst – in the good way. Oh, Donut had seen how his friend had been struggling with his emotions ever since the _accident_.

And the ways things were going right now… Maybe they weren't going to get their guys back as soon as expected.

Donut bit his lower lip.

So their Lieutenants were really trying. Everyone could see that.

Their performance was just not… satisfying.

But a few encouraging words could change that. Or at least put them on the right path. Bitters especially could use encouragement. But they were all doing better. The Captains, too.

They were just not good enough.

Or maybe Felix was just better than expected. It depended on how you looked at it.

Tucker and Caboose were already there. Quite surprising since Donut was usually the guy who came early.

"Where's Simmons?" Tucker asked, one hand holding the tablet where they had illustrated the strategies they were going to try out today. Caboose was looking over his shoulder, apparently trying to reach for the screen so he could colorize the drawings.

Donut cringed."Weeeeellll… There was an accident."

Tucker sighed and seemed to have a mental debate about whether to turn off the tablet or just hand it to Caboose. In the end he chose to make his teammate happy. "So tears or vomit? I thought the sleeping pills were working."

"Oh, nothing like that." It's been days since Simmons had been suffered from one of those kinds of accidents. Extremely bad nightmares. Donut understood, and while it was extremely hard to not have dear Lopez around to tell him comforting Spanish phrases – he was such a supportive friend, no, supportive _amigo_ – Donut was becoming pretty good at composing himself. Someone had to be hard as a rock in order to keep the others upright. "He tried to take on Felix alone."

"So now he's suicidal?!" Tucker asked, sounding pretty dumbfounded, and you could not hear whether this was caused by worry over Simmons' negative progression or just the idea of going solo against Felix. "You got this handled?" he asked Donut, since the pink Captain had proclaimed himself the Red Mother Hen.

"He'll come back once he's done with the mechanist. It's usually a quick job."

"Bow-chica-" Tucker stopped himself in the middle of his catch-phrase. "Why have I been saying this so much lately?" He then looked up, as if seeing the pink soldier for the first time, and he quickly added, "Yeah, never mind 'bout that."

It was when the Lieutenants arrived that Donut began to wring his hands. Not that he was nervous about the training – even Caboose was now flailing the tablet around in excitement.

The Lieutenants placed themselves in front of them and then Donut noticed.

"Bitters!" he gasped, hands on his helmet in shock. "Your armor! It's…" His voice died into a whisper when he realized just what this meant. "… _orange_. Oh no."

"…I put it in the wrong wash?" Bitters was not even trying to sound confident about it.

Donut knew how much damage the wrong colors could cause – something the people who had arranged the HQ's sleeping quarters had most certainly not known (grey walls and wooden floors – not to mention the holes and mold) – but this was just devastating. "Oh, Bitters, you can't-"

"I thought we agreed that color-discussion were after the training?" Tucker asked impatiently. Not without cause – Bitters had started a debate about his armor color every day since he had been forced onto Pink Team. And while it was important to know the difference between pink and light-ish red, Donut could understand why Tucker must be frustrated with how long it took other people to understand the color wheel.

Caboose tilted his head as he looked at Tucker. "I still don't understand how you can be both blue and green."

"Caboose, for the last time, I'm the Captain of Green Team but we're both Blues, at least Sarge calls, uhm, called us that." Tucker rubbed his neck awkwardly, since using past tense was uncomfortable for everyone.

Donut, too involved in the actually very complicated color discussion, didn't notice Tucker's own correction. "It actually makes sense – blue plus green and you're wearing aqua armor."

"What am I?" Caboose asked.

"Blue," Tucker answered shortly.

"And what else?"

"Blue!" Donut replied cheerfully.

Caboose tilted his head. "And what does that make?"

Tucker threw out his hands in frustration. "I don't know! Deep blue? Shouldn't you be an expert on this?" he asked, turning towards Donut who shrugged.

Someone cleared their throat, and the Captains froze when they realized the Lieutenants were still standing attention. It was Smith who was coughing discreetly into his elbow.

Slamming his palm against his visor, Tucker sighed: "Why does this have to happen every time?"

"Can we have a break now?" Bitters asked, and then he had to turn his head upwards in dismay as Jensen raised her hand.

"Actually, sirs, if we're talking about the same shade of blue, the color pigment should remain unchanged f you added more."

"Huh," Tucker said. "Great. Run five laps."

Jensen's hand dropped immediately. "What?"

"Actually, let's make it ten. All of you." Tucker announced, earning groans from the Lieutenants. "We'll set up the course, you'll warm up!"

"And remember to put focus on your thighs!" Donut called after them as they slowly began to shuffle forward. "Straining positions will be worth it in the end!"

"And the winner will get a cookie!" Caboose promised.

It was a good thing that Bitters was as slow as always, since this gave Donut the chance to rush after him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Bitters?"

The Lieutenant stiffened under his grasp and reluctantly turned around. "What?"

Donut took in a deep breath. "I need you to take off your armor."

"The fuck?" Bitters asked. The alarm in his voice was obvious, even if you did no see him jump a step backwards. Donut suddenly remembered how Simmons had warned him that certain expressions could end up in harassment chargers. While Donut was a master when it came to using his mouth, perhaps he could be a little bit more specific…

"I mean…" How to put this…? "Orange is not your color."

Bitters' shoulders slumped; he was obviously more relaxed now when he knew he was not going to be a part of a strip-show. But he also seemed annoyed when he breathed in sharply through his nose – which was weird since it was usually Bitters who brought up the color-discussion when he claimed he could not wear pink. "So?"

"Well, the thing is, orange is someone else's color. And I really, _really_ need you to change."

Bitters shifted the weight from one foot to the other.

" _Pleeeeeaaaaase_?" Donut asked, clasping his hands together. "Pretty please?"

"Uh…"

"Don't make me use my commanding voice, Bitters – you know this team is built upon trust and mutual respect."

Bitters crossed his arms in a way that didn't really radiate respect. But after a few seconds, he raised his head, as if finally coming back to life, and he muttered with a sigh, "I can try to scrape off the paint."

Donut gave him his brightest smile, even after he remembered his visor hid it. "Thank you! Now, if you hurry, I'm sure you can catch up with the others in no time. You don't need to beat them, but try to get so close you can grab their behinds!" He threw an energetic fist in the air, hoping it would rub off on the Lieutenant.

But Bitters just took in a deep breath and reluctantly began to plod in the direction his friends had run off in.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Donut declared that a problem that had been dealt with. Now he just had to figure out how to open up Simmons without giving the poor man a mental breakdown.

He had just turned around to go back to Tucker and Caboose when Simmons stumbled into the training hall. He looked better than when he had fled from Donut, but that was probably because his helmet hid his face now. However, his walk was more steady as he made a beeline for Donut.

"Has the lesson started yet?" Simmons asked rather breathlessly. It was obvious that he had hurried his way here.

"Oh, we sent them running while we set up the course. I had a little talk with Bitters, but now he's out there, chasing their behinds." Donut chuckled nervously before bringing up the subject. "I, uh – we talked it through and agreed that orange wasn't his color. So you don't have to worry about that anymore."

"Yeah," Simmons said shortly, obviously not comfortable talking about it. Donut would have to change that later.

"You have to forgive Bitters," Donut said as they began to walk towards their fellow Captains. "He's still trying to figure out who he is. I remember when I was in that age – the parts of me I hadn't learned how to control yet." He laughed weakly again, a melancholic tone to it. Then he sighed. "They're so young, Simmons."

The maroon soldier nodded gravely.

Donut decided the conversation had turned rather grim, so he clasped his hands together again, indicating a change of mood. "But not to worry about that now! Today's gonna be a good day – you should have seen the stars in the Lieutenants' eyes-"

"I've seen enough stars today," Simmons muttered, hand on his helmet as if to rub his sore head. Donut could sympathize – nothing was more tense than the feeling of your head just about to burst.

"-They are up for the task, and I have a good feeling that today's strategy is going to work." He leaned closer and added in a lower voice, as if telling him a secret, "Caboose added some extra details that can be vital to our success."

"…so he colorized them?" Simmons concluded, and his flat voice made Donut decide not to reply to that comment.

Instead he continued, "And while I know you've had a rough morning, things can go smoother from here. Now when I've taken care of Bitters, there's nothing that can bring back aching memories. Are you ready to get started?" Donut asked, voice hopeful but caring.

Simmons turned his head to stare at him. While the visor hid his face, it was clear he was wearing a serious expression. "Sure. I'm sure Felix is just waiting for us to try again," he added bitterly.

"That's the spirit!" Donut cheered, happy that his friends had left his depressive thought for a moment.

"So what is the next training lesson?"

"Target practice! We have to make sure they don't miss with their first try. Let's go help Tucker and Caboose set up the target…" It had happened on the same time: Donut realizing just what he was saying, and the Blues entering the hall, carrying the one object Simmons really did not need to see right now. Donut's voice became a shocked whisper as he unconsciously finished his sentences, "…cones. Oh no."

He could feel Simmons freeze next to him. Donut reacted quickly by grabbing him by his shoulders and turning him around, so he was unable to see Tucker looking down at the cones, connecting the dots, and throwing his head back in frustration.

But it was too late: Simmons let out this weird, choked, dry sob, and Donut could do nothing more but pat his back in comfort as he realized this was going to be a long day.

Donut just really hoped that Grif had a cone to protect himself with, now when Donut and Simmons was not there to help him.

* * *

"It kinda looks like you got hit by a car," Jensen commented as she looked over his shoulder.

Bitters let out a grunt as he continued to scrape off the paint. "You should know," he said dryly. "When is Evans leaving the hospital?"

"Oh, they let him out yesterday. Only a broken leg."

"Huh," Bitters said, letting dry orange flakes flow to the ground. "You're getting better."

Smith nodded as he positioned himself against the wall. "She's only had two accidents this week. That's an impressive improvement, Jensen."

"Thank you, Smith," Jensen replied with pride in her voice. She leaned over Bitter again, asking, "So does this mean you've finally giving up going against Captain Donut's orders?"

"Yeah, I kinda miss seeing you in pink," Palomo complained. "It's been too long since I've taken new pictures."

Bitters clenched his fist as he remembered Palomo's scrapbook – its only purpose being to humiliate Bitters. "Palomo, shut the fuck up."

"C'mon, guys, don't fight again." Jensen stood up, as if trying to create a living shield between her two fellow Lieutenants. It would not be the first time Bitters had started a fist-fight whenever Palomo annoyed him. "It doesn't look that bad, Bitters. At least you aren't copying my armor anymore."

"And you usually just pull off that girl-armor," Palomo grinned and then had to duck as Bitters threw his scraping tool after him.

Smith looked at their youngest soldier in disapproval before turning his head towards Bitters. "I think it's a good sign that you're finally listening to your Captain."

"He was weirdly stern about it this time," Bitters muttered as he put his armor back on. While most of the orange color had been scraped off, it had also resulted in numerous scratches. It kind of looked like he had just returned from a really harsh battle. Or, as Jensen put it, been run over by a car. "It's just a color."

"You know, the same argument could be used to convince you to wear pink armor," Jensen mused. She was probably smirking behind her visor.

Bitters shrugged. "Whatever." He put the helmet back on his face, hesitating a little, but then asked, "Do you know who the fuck Grif is?"

All three visors turned to stare at him. "You don't know?" Jensen asked, sounding almost shocked as if disbelieving his question. "That's Captain Simmons' boyfriend!"

Bitters choked on something. "What?"

"Actually, Tucker said he's pretty sure they married each other in secret or something. Or that they're actually married and they just don't know it yet," Palomo added.

"Did Captain Simmons actually clarify whether he is in an active relationship?" Smith asked, still managing to sound as respectful as always.

Jensen tilted her head. "Well, Captain Donut said they'd been in love for a long time. He also said it was a complicated relationship, especially now when…" She trailed off, fiddling her thumbs. "Well, we're going to rescue them. Captain Simmons never brings him up himself – he likes his privacy."

"What? Did Caboose never mention him?" Palomo asked, picking himself off from where he had fallen when Bitters had thrown his tool after him.

"He did specify that the name is spelled with two f's."

Bitters was digging his foot into the floor, brushing away the small pile of orange. This was not really how he had planned the conversation would go, so he decided to end it. "I think I may have found a way to escape wearing pink."

"Are you going to run around naked as the next step? 'cause I think Donut might actually approve of that," Palomo said as a shrug. "It could serve as a distraction. Or just blind the enemy."

Bitters flipped him the finger. "I'm gonna have to switch teams."

Jensen and Smith shared a glance, while Palomo just exclaimed, "Who's going to want _you_?"

Bitters sent him the darkest stare he could muster through the visor.

Shrugging, Palomo continued, "What? S'not like you've been trying to make a good impression."

"He has a point," Jensen admitted. "No offence, Bitters, but you know you haven't exactly tried to make your test score look impressive. If you want to convince them you're needed on their team, you're going to need a major case of sucking up."

"Huh," Bitters said and retreated back to his own thoughts.

Good thing he had a friend who was the Master of Sucking Up and would be willing to help Bitters when it gave him the opportunity to get a promotion.

* * *

Simmons' day had been shitty. Actually, he had been having a lot of shitty days lately, but today was just worse. Today was shitti _er_.

So when someone knocked on the door, he did not even bother to leave his bed. "Go away, Donut!" he called loudly, knowing it was his teammate who was coming to check up on him. At the end of the disastrous training lesson, Donut had promised to come by later, no matter how many times Simmons dismissed that idea.

And so Simmons had locked his door.

The knocking continued.

Simmons stared at his ceiling. It had 39 tiles. The one in the second row in the left corner was cracked.

Donut was persistent today. The cyborg narrowed his eyes as he glared in the direction of the noise. "I don't want to talk about it, Donut! Go away!"

"Uhm, I'm not Donut."

When he recognized Bitters' voice, Simmons jumped out of his bed immediately. However, when his hand was hovering above the doorknob, he hesitated, wondering whether this was a trick. Perhaps Bitters would spray silly strings in his face. Or maybe rob him. Or maybe inform him that the dorm was on fire or something.

After a couple of seconds, he decided that Bitters was probably too lazy to do anything, meaning there was probably an important reason to why he was knocking on Simmons' door.

Bitters was staring at his shoes when Simmons faced him. Most of the orange had been scraped off his armor, at least. He was not wearing any helmet. Simmons crossed his arms, remembering the conversation that they gone through in the morning. "Yes?" He doubted Bitters was here to apologize for putting horrible scenarios inside Simmons' head.

The Lieutenant sighed before lifting his head. He looked pained. Perhaps he was here to apologize. "I'm here to ask if I could switch to your team," he said in a low voice and quickly added, "Not as a Lieutenant or anything."

Simmons blinked. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Blinked again. "Wait. What?"

Bitters breathed in deeply, as if trying to ready himself to push the words through his lips. "I want to switch to your team."

"My – _my_ team?" Simmons stuttered in pure surprise. Then he frowned, hardening his expression. "And why would I agree to that?"

The young soldier looked down at his left hand and explained with a monotone voice, "I deeply apologize for my disrespectful behavior. I was merely expressing my frustration as I was carrying a too heavy weight on my shoulders, being granted a title I was in no way ready for. On that note I would like to mention my friend Matthews, who has been a great support throughout my struggles and would with no doubt be able to replace my spot and bring the team to new heights. However, I promise if you would let me in on your team, I would do my best to prove I am indeed a capable soldier who, with the right training, can improve your chances in battle." Bitters finished with a sigh, looking up at Simmons in expectation.

Simmons stared. Blinked. Stared again as he tried to find the right words. "Did you… Did you just read all that from your palm?" he asked, dumbfounded. He remembered Grif using this trick when Sarge had taught them how to answer the radio. In the beginning the orange soldier had been struggling with remembering the few, simple sentences going: "Thank you for calling Red Base. This is Private Grif, how may I assist you today?" Simmons remembered how they had spent half of the night practicing it, until Grif had given up, calling Simmons ugly words and throwing a pillow in his face.

Bitters immediately clenched a fist. "No?"

"Bitters, I'm not stupid – I know that trick. I also know those are not your words, and you don't mean any of them."

The young soldier shrugged. He did not seem to care that Simmons had just exposed him completely. "But did it work?"

Simmons choked on his disbelief. His expression contorted into one of frustration. "Why would I let you into my team? There would be no logical reason to do that! You're a bad excuse for a soldier, I've never seen just _try_ to accomplish _anything_ , you don't care if you're pulling down the rest of your team, you don't care about other people's feelings. You're apathetic, and the only time I've actually seen you genially care about something is whenever the mess hall is handing out extra meals or if we have to skip the break in training. So no, I'm not going to let you in on my team, 'cause I don't need a lazy, loud-mouthing, disrespectful, good-for-nothing _fatass_!"

When Simmons was done, he was panting. At some point he discovered he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he realized Bitters was standing in front of him.

Simmons' mouth felt very dry.

It was almost impressive that Bitters managed to keep his expression completely neutral. Simmons had to give him that. The cyborg knew that he was tearing up right now, not exactly setting a good example. Oh well. Bitters had started this. Hadn't he?

"Yeah," Bitters said, still keeping eye-contact. He smacked his lips. "Never mind." He turned around on his heel and began to walk away. Simmons did not say anything. He could very well understand why he did not want to be on the Red Team anymore.

Simmons was debating whether to slap his hand across his forehead or just simply slam his head against the wall, when a soft voice called out, "Oh, Simmons."

He had to stop biting his lip in order to say, "Not now, Donut." Of course the pink soldier would show up _now_. Donut always had a bad timing. Especially when it came to words.

"Well, you just traumatized my Lieutenant!" The Pink Captain placed his hands on his hips, expression showing that he was displeased with Simmons. Who wasn't by now?

The cyborg wondered if he could just slip inside his room and lock the door, but he decided that would be too childish. He did have some standards after all. Of course he had just been yelling out insults at a young soldier, but since Sarge had been (was. He should probably go with _was_. Sarge was still alive, Kimball had said that) his Sergeant, this sort of discipline was only to be expected.

Not like he could go yelling at his own squad – Jensen deserved better. She would probably cry in secret or develop a bad confidence and end up doubting her own abilities and whether she was actually fit to be a soldier. That was a normal reaction when a superior scolded you. Nothing strange about that.

But Bitters was a dirtbag and Bitters deserved harsh words. Simmons had only been trying to help him by granting him inspiring words.

"He'll be fine," Simmons said, because this was Bitters and Bitters did not care about anything. If Simmons' words had actually gotten to him, it was probably a good thing.

"You're obviously not fine," Donut said and now changed his position so his arms were crossed. "But you don't have to take it out on Bitters."

"It's not-" Simmons stopped himself, frowning. "You do realize your Lieutenant came to me because he wants to flee from your team, right?"

Donut folded his hands. "Bitters is still trying to get comfortable in his new position, yes. But that does not give you the right to explode in his face."

"He's just so-" Simmons struggled with finding the right words, and in the end he just threw up his arms. "You know. Gah, I just don't get why you insist on keeping him." Unable to decide whether to go inside his room or stay out in the hallway, the cyborg eventually just let his tired legs collapse and he slowly slid down the wall to sit on the ground.

Donut hesitated, but then sat down next to him, after brushing away most of the dust on the floor. "Because I trust that I can count on him when we get in a real battle. I know that once I get down in position, he'll be right behind me." Simmons had to snicker at that scenario, and Donut continued softly, "You know his type. They might not really be listening, and they may seem carefree and lazy, but when the situation gets tense, I know he'll have my back."

Simmons turned his head, revealing the black eye he had received from Felix earlier that day. Donut did not comment on it. Instead he continued sending Simmons a watery smile that Simmons eventually had to return.

Yeah. He knew that type.

* * *

Thank fucking god for Smith. Tucker mentally repeated that over and over as he put on his jogging pants. Because Smith was hopelessly adoring Caboose, it meant Caboose had a new playmate.

Which also meant Tucker had been given a whole evening for himself. And that had sounded great. Days on Chorus were long, with all that responsibility and fucked up missions and dead soldiers and annoying Lieutenants – as a side note, why had Bitters come begging to join his team? Tucker's answer had been a clear _hell no_ since it was enough having to deal with Palomo.

So yeah, an evening by himself sounded great. Of course not as great as if he had been having company (the right company, just to make that clear).

Then it had turned out that an evening alone sucked. He had spent the evening staring at ceiling before trying to read some of the magazines Grif had traded to him in order to get the package of snack cakes Tucker had managed to find on the Hand of Merope.

However, Tucker had quickly given up on reading the magazines (if you would even call that reading.) because it had just not felt right.

When he had looked at the clock and realized it was 1am, he had simply given up. He knew he would not be able to fall asleep, so he had decided to run some laps around that HQ.

Not that Tucker found that fun or anything. He spent his days training – he would love to use his nights on sleeping. Actually, he would like to spend his nights on _something else_ but that wasn't really possible at the moment.

Running laps was probably just a side effect from living with Wash. The Freelancer had gotten up at least every second night to go running. Whenever he had one of the bad nightmares, really. Wash called it _getting it out of his system_.

In the beginning, Tucker had let Wash run. Then, eventually, he had begun to run along. Gingerly, of course. He probably slowed down Wash, like _a lot_ , but the Freelancer made sure they kept the same pace. He seemed to enjoy the company.

Then Caboose would run past them and make it weird.

Tonight Tucker ran alone, letting the night air cool down his skin. There was sweat running down his t-shirt, he was panting, his body was so fucking tired but it didn't help.

All it actually did was just to remind him that Wash couldn't run his laps when he would have his nightmares now, and that just made Tucker depressive as fuck. It fed that annoying, cold knot in his stomach that he did his best to ignore.

It was about then he remembered that half-full bottle of whiskey he had snatched during one of the supply runs and that he had stowed away in the corner of his room. For emergency situations. He had kept from it so far 'cause their training sessions were a big enough headache without a hangover.

Tonight was definitely an emergency situation. If he was going to get any sleep tonight, he would have to be wasted.

Tucker had halted his running into a slow jog when he stumbled into Bitters. Without his helmet, the young soldier's frown was very visible. It was clear that something was wrong. Not to mention the fact that it was the middle of the night and there was no reason for the Lieutenant to be out here.

Sighing, Tucker asked in an annoyed tone, "Alright, what did you do?"

"Uhm." It was strange to see Bitters without his neutral expression. He looked strangely uncomfortable right now, almost panicked. "I think you need to come see this."

Well, didn't that just sound promising.

Mirroring the Lieutenant's frown, Tucker followed him. He tried to come up with some reasonable explanation to why Bitters was dragging him towards the garage, but none of the scenarios really fit. Except Jensen crashing a car again, but why would she be out in the middle of the night?

Bitters kept quiet, looking oddly relieved to have Tucker with him, and the moment they stepped inside the garage, the Lieutenant backed away to let the Captain deal with the problem.

Said problem was pretty easy to spot. And hear, actually.

Tucker took some steps closer and rounded a corner. That was where he found Simmons.

The cyborg was in his nightwear, sitting crouched on the ground, slamming his forehead against the metal wall in a steady rhythm while muttering "fuck" or "shit" or something too low to be heard with each slam.

There were sweat stains on his maroon t-shirt as well, but Tucker highly doubted he had been running.

Tucker watched his friend have a nervous breakdown, and he sighed, running a hand across his face while muttering, "Aw, fuckberries."

He had a feeling he would have to share his bottle of whiskey tonight.

* * *

A/N: Captain Donut is the new light of my life. I love him so much. Buuuuuuut… he's also the reason the chapter once again turned out longer than expected, so once again some scenes have been moved to later chapters. Not the next chapter, though. That's one is all set.

Wow, you guys are awesome! Thank you so much for all the support! I'm glad you like reading this story, 'cause I'm having a blast writing it.

And a fair warning to you guys: the next chapter is going to have a darker tone than what you normally see from me. The tags serve as some warning, but I thought I should let the squeamish reader know as well, so it won't come as an unpleasant surprise. It will all make sense in the next chapter (it will also explain how the fuck Simmons ended up where Tucker found him), so I hope I can get it out soon, but I'll first be updating "Seeing Red ('Cause That's a Lot of Blood)".

Thanks for reading – have an awesome day!


	6. What Does the 'A' Stand For?

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Warning** : Torture scene in this chapter. I have tried not to make it too gorish or graphic since I'm not really into that, but this scene does include blood, cuts and broken bones, though most of the scene is basically dialogue.

 **Shake  
** _What Does the 'A' Stand For?_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **noun**_ **, a tremor.]**

* * *

"Yes, sir," Simmons answered, his voice only wavering slightly. When the superior left he let his hand fall from his helmet and his shoulders drop. The rifle was heavy on his back, making him slump forward.

However, his anxiety only showed until another soldier - armor sand with brown trims - cleared his throat. "We should join up with the others near the western side. Radio said they've run into some trouble." His voice had a squeakiness that revealed his youth. Frowning, Simmons straightened out his back and tried to make his own voice firm.

"Yeah. Yes, of course. Uh, that way?" Of course Simmons being Simmons meant he could only reach some level of authority. His voice began shaking when they reached the warzone anyway.

The Western Front was as expected. Clouds of dust and stray rocks, bullets ringing almost as loudly as the explosions. The sun was a distant thing beneath the dirt and suffocating air. Simmons drew his gun, finger resting on the trigger. Shadows moved but combat was too active to make out more. His legs moved in accordance with his years in combat. The dirt and the chaos made fighting difficult. The odd tree and stray root made it harder.

His stance was accurate – so professional the superior would have praised him by the sight – until a stray thought, a gnawing worry, snuck its way up his metal spine, reaching the brain and causing a brief blackout. The telltale sign of Simmons having a panic attack were his hands: first they were clenching the gun tighter, then they began to shake.

He was muttering something under his breath as the shake spread to the rest of his body. While the rambling was too low to be heard, the occasional " _Fuck"_ or " _Simmons"_ could be heard. While it might have caused concern to hear the maroon soldier talking to himself, his new teammates were too preoccupied to tend him.

There was a crack against the tree Simmons was supporting himself against. He looked up in wonder, registering the sound. It was a source of annoyance in the beginning, when it shook him out of his rambling thoughts, but then he connected the sound with danger. Panicked, he dove behind the next tree the forest provided him for cover.

With his back pressed against it, he breathed in deeply. There was no way he was alone. One of the men in his squad had sought protection here too, occasionally peeking around the side to fire some shots. When his helmet tilted upwards, sending Simmons a pleading glace, the maroon soldier took the rifle from his back and began to fire as well.

The Feds' armor revealed their presence – the white standing out in the moss covered forest. It made it easier to focus on them as targets and now when the adrenalin stopped Simmons' hands from shaking he managed to pull the trigger enough times until two of the enemies fell.

To be honest, it was not the white figures jumping over logs that made Simmons' heart beat faster in fear. It was the knowledge, the painful memory that some of Feds could not be seen before it was too late. The scene was still too clear in his memory: the cloaked Feds had finally revealed their presence, Locus in the front, the loss of those Simmons had held dear.

The knowledge that someone might be sneaking up on him _right now_ , that Locus might be lurking around, caused Simmons to hesitate for just a moment where his thoughts and focus accidently wandered into the dark corner of his mind.

When he snapped back to reality, he turned his head to face the Rebel. However, they were no longer stood. Instead, their body now lay limp on the ground; a hole in his visor with cracks spreading like a spider's web.

It took a second before Simmons realized the truth.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh-"

Turning his head, he focused on the two Feds that were advancing on them. Their rifles were both aimed at Simmons who mirrored their stance. He lingered by the tree. Then one of the white armored soldier froze, lowering weapon just an inch. His comrade halted as well when he noticed the hesitation.

"You're one of the sim troopers!" he exclaimed, almost sounding surprised.

Simmons' reaction was an " _Oh shit_!" and then his finger pulled the trigger. The first Fed fell with three bullets in his chest while the other scrambled to cover.

The battle began with only the two of them; every five seconds someone would be brave enough to reveal themselves in order to take aim, the other would dodge, and then the roles were changed once again. But slowly, all while keeping his eyes on the person who was trying to shoot him, Simmons noticed more and more movement around the two of them.

More Rebels eventually joined them but they were not the only reinforcements. It was not long before more white figures appeared. It all added to the already deafening sound of guns as well as the shouting. The chaos, admittedly, panicked Simmons but his anger kept his aim steady.

It was why he was out there, after all. Why Donut and Tucker and even Caboose were fighting as well, covering the other areas of the battlefields. They were fighting the enemy, they were doing something, they were getting their friends back, it was only right to-

Something was thrown into the air from across the field. Simmons' first thought was that it was a stray bullet but he quickly realized it was too large. By the time it plowed itself into the ground, he knew, but that knowledge did nothing to save them.

A blast of orange, a wave of mud. Simmons' feet left the ground and everything was dark. Fresh terror flooded into his veins.

He hit the ground shoulder-first. Righting himself quickly, he scavenged for his gun. If Simmons had thought the battle noises had been loud it was nothing against the ringing inside his head that now seemed to be melting his brain. The piercing sound made him feel nauseous and the way the world continued to spin in front of his eyes did nothing to help.

When his vision finally settled he saw moss with drops of blood on it, and it was about then he realized he was on the forest floor. The ringing in his ears had changed into an annoying, constant beeping followed by several warning messages – blinking popups with the words and – in the left side of his vision. His cyborg eye was informing on various problems with the rest of his robot parts.

In reality those injuries were not his biggest problem; at least they did not feel like it. Metal could not feel pain, it could not bleed, but Simmons knew the importance of his cyborg gears. They were, after all, keeping him alive.

But the searing pain in his flesh shoulder stole his attention. It was hard to investigate the wound itself with all the armor in the way but Simmons tried to touch the area with a shaking hand anyway, and the fingers came back bloody.

The words _shit shit shit ohfuckingshit_ would not leave his lips but his mind kept repeating them over and over. Some meters away from him another Rebel was lying dead in his own blood but when Simmons managed to ignore his internal beeping he realized there was still a gunfight going on.

A single Rebel was still standing; one hand pressed against his bleeding side, another pulling the trigger as he kept shooting that kept returning fire.

Simmons wanted to help him but he could not see his rifle anywhere close to him and the thought of just attempting to sit up seemed to difficult. His cyborg parts suddenly felt way too heavy, his legs too numb, and the only part of his body that actually seemed alive was his burning shoulder.

Knowing the rifle was out of reach, the cyborg tried to put a hand on his helmet. If he could call Tucker or Donut, or just Caboose, he could tell them to arrive with reinforcements.

Or he should tell them to stay away; some of them had to stay alive, they had to beat the Feds and order to find the others and rescue them-

Out of the corner of his eye Simmons noticed the falling grenade. Squeezing his eyes shut he muttered one final "Sorry" and comforted himself with the fact that at least the annoying beeping would end.

It did.

When the grenade exploded, the sound became as monotone as a flatline.

* * *

Grif woke up with a gasp. He sat up so quickly that he prepared himself for the pain caused by slamming his head against the ceiling. When seconds passed and no headache appeared, he realized he was no longer sleeping in his and Simmons' bunk bed. It had been a while since he had slept in the upper bunk. The last time that had happened was back in Valhalla, and that felt like forever ago.

While no pain was definitely a good thing, it still sucked to wake up in a bed that wasn't his. But a bed was a bed, and Grif could not complain about that.

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and blinked the blurriness out of his vision. From of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement from Wash' cot. It did not really surprise him to find the Freelancer staring at the ceiling while fiddling his thumbs.

But if Grif was aware that Wash was awake, there was no doubt that the Blue had heard panicked awakening. That meant Grif could either choose between awkward silence or he could talk about it.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he muttered, wiping his sweaty palms against night trousers.

The Freelancer turned his head to stare back. "I try to." The dark rings under his eyes told Grif that it was a battle he did not win often. It was not that shocking since Tucker had often complained about his "friend's" (yeah, right) restlessness at night. He had even told Grif that sometimes they had to go running before the Freelancer would calm down.

If Simmons ever got the idea that more training was the solution to his nightmares, Grif would drug the fuck out of him with sleeping pills.

"Well, you suck at it," Grif muttered. Nothing was sadder than a person who could not sleep. All the joy they missed. But at least it kept them free from nightmares.

The Freelancer blinked tiredly, looking very much like a guy who should be sleeping right now. "I feel like I should point out that you are awake as well."

Okay, so fair point. But that just proved that today had sucked bad since even Grif had trouble sleeping.

The day had been strange enough in itself, but he had still not grown used to the idea of sharing room with Wash. This was the second bedroom they had been given, since they had already been moved from the first Federal compound, and this place only had bedroom for two people.

Since Sarge had refused to sleep with a Blue, Grif had offered to take the "punishment". It was probably better anyway since being stuck with Sarge and Lopez in a room filled with tension would probably not work out well – for Grif. Not when the two other Reds preferred to use him as a punching bag to let out frustrations.

But while the Freelancer had been remarkably calm and _sane_ so far, it was weird not to hear the familiar hissing of Simmons' cyborg lungs at night.

Wash sat up a little, pushing himself up with his right arm. His head was tilted as he looked at Grif. "Are you alright?"

It took some seconds before Grif realized he was gesturing towards the Hawaiian's shaking hands. He could be making a tremendous milkshake with how badly they were trembling. He tried to control the limbs, but they seemed to be disagreeing with him. Especially his left hand – the parts that had once belonged to Simmons always struggled to keep up with his original body parts.

What fucking bullshit – Simmons was the one who suffered from stupid dreams. Not Grif.

But Wash' eyes were filled like something that looked suspiciously like genuine concern, and that was just fucking strange. Grif would receive some stares from Simmons at times because the nerd worried about _everything_ , and sometimes from Donut because the guy liked emotions. But he would never receive such care from Sarge and Lopez, and he had not really expected it from a Blue.

He shrugged, gripping the edge of the bed to hide the shaking. The adrenalin was still affecting him which was just fucking bullshit since nights were supposed to be the one time where Grif could have peace. "Already told you," he said, turning his head to stare at the white and very uninteresting wall. "I don't do cold."

"Oh," Wash said shortly. At least he wasn't offering him a fucking blanket or something like that. The mood was weird enough here already. There was always less tension when Locus wasn't around, and at least the mercenary had seemed to understand Wash' threat – or, well, technically Doctor Grey's threat.

But now when they were no longer prisoners they could walk down the hallways and receive the creepy, blank glares from them visors of all the Feds that had gathered to see the newcomers. Strange could barely describe it. Some days ago Grif could have sworn the guys were out to kill them and now they were apparently on the same team?!

…Okay, so there was some irony over that. But at least the Blues had turned out to be friendly assholes – not overly friendly like the Feds who called them their new hope, or a giant asshole like Locus.

"This place sucks," Grif sighed, lying back down. At least the pillow was soft. "Snow, everyone is _fucking weird_ in the bad way, and they actually expect us to work."

"I still say it's better than being actual prisoners," Wash said calmly, without even calling Grif lazy or throw an insult at him. No weird philosophical questions either. It was all much different from the late night talks he and Simmons would share.

But that was alright, somehow. The difference made it easier to forget how the cyborg had been heaving for air after the first explosion had hit him.

"Meh," Grif replied, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. It was too thin, especially since the Feds only seemed to like hanging out in cold places. Once again Grif wondered just why he had been unlucky enough to get stuck on this side of the cave-in. "At least in a prison you don't have to do anything. 'cause you can't do anything. Except taking naps, which really doesn't sound like a punishment to me."

Wash had this weird strained expression that would require too much effort from Grif in order to read. "That's not how prisons work."

"Look, I'm a reliable source." The Hawaiian adjusted himself on the mattress. After noticing Wash' raised eyebrow he knew he could lead this conversation away from the gloomy topics. "Yep." He smacked his lips. "I've served my time my time behind bars, Wash. I know what's it like in there – it changes a man."

"You…" Wash blinked; his usual serious expression clearing into a surprised confusion. "You've been in jail?" There was a touch of disbelief in his tone too.

Grif could not hide his smirk. "Yep. Sometimes I miss the man I was before. Handled it better than Church, though – poor guy couldn't take it. Broke down completely."

Wash looked like Simmons when the nerd was experiencing a short circuit. "You and Church were in jail together? Why am I having a hard time believing that."

"Ah, because you're gullible?" Grif suggested in a _duh_ -kind of tone. "You just can't believe this face has seen the horrors of jail."

Wash, despite the dark rings under his eyes, now looked very much awake. "So just when did you and Church end up in jail? And for what?" His blue eyes were focused on his roommate in a suspicious glare.

Grif did not as much as flinch under the scrutiny. Instead he calmly folded his hands on top of his stomach, sighing as he faked to relive painful memories. "Trespassing. We set one foot into the enemy's territory and _bam_ – we were ambushed. Left us to starve in there. Or freeze to death. Why do all prisons have to be cold as fuck?!"

"This is still not a prison," Wash reminded him tiredly. "And you were their prisoners for how long?"

"Five hours." Grif nodded gravely after taking in Wash' dead-panned expression. "I know. It still keeps me up at night, the memories."

Wash ran a hand down his wrinkled forehead, fingers brushing against numerous scars. "Grif, you do know that is not the same as actually serving time in prison, right?"

The Hawaiian rolled his mismatched colored eyes. "Like you'd know." The moment the words left his lips he reconsidered it. Under Wash' piercing stare, Grif finally admitted he had been wrong. "Eh, I guess you _would_ know. Right. So how long did your stay last?"

"A bit longer than five hours."

Grif grunted something incomprehensible. In the darkened room it was easy to imagine that they were not in fact stuck in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people and a looming mercenary that made sure to crush every homelike feeling that could occur.

The thin blanket gave little protection and his body began shaking again. This was definitely not like the cold nights in Valhalla where he could slip into Simmons' bed so they could share their two blankets and the cyborg would bitch and moan for a while until he too would give in and enjoy the extra heat.

"Fuck, it's cold," he muttered again and was for once grateful for his shortness that allowed him to cover his head with his blanket as well as his toes.

Not only was the blanket useless against the chilling air; he could also feel Wash' glare through it. "…Are you trying to ask if you could have my blanket?"

"Wha – _no._ " Now Wash was making it weird and Grif had to uncover his head in order to stare at the freelancer with a frown. "If anything, I want you to get some sleep. You're like one shade a pale away from someone screaming _zombie_."'

Wash let out a sigh, sounding as tired as Grif felt. "I know I'm not the roommate you wanted-"

"Are you kidding? Lopez still has a habit of malfunctioning and hit me in the head – or maybe just _functioning_ and hit me in the head. Those orders are probably programmed so deeply into him his detached arm would hunt me down if it had the chance. And Sarge is still plotting how to turn the crazy doctor _red_ – his words by the way. Last time I overheard his plans he was talking about revealing his shotgun's length to her."

The faint ghost of a smile slipped into Wash' face features. "And by that he meant…?"

"I don't even wanna know."

* * *

The first impression was the cold, the second the ice-cold touch from the metal tools. However, despite the chill, there was a thin layer of sweat on Grif's body. Across his naked torso, it mixed with the blood flowing from the cuts, and the crimson liquid flowed across bruises as the gravity dragged it down towards the metal table.

The goosebumps were visible on his dark skin, on top of tense muscles. His entire body was tensed up, back raised in an arc from the table, causing the leather straps to bite into his already skinless wrist.

But the worst sight was the hands. The palms were turned upwards, fingers crooked, forced in painful directions as they stretched towards the ceiling.

Grif blinked slowly, eyes slightly glazed with exhaustion. They matched the dark rings under them.

When a shadow fell upon his face, his expression hardened into something that looked like stubbornness.

The Fed - just like his comrades that had attacked them at the crash site - was wearing white armor but his gloves had been covered in crimson from his work, the color almost reaching his elbows. Some blood was dripping from the knife he was holding, his grip tightening as he advanced on the man strapped down.

Managing to lift his head slightly, Grif eyed the weapon with dismay. It was more annoyance than actual fear – if the point was to scare him, the torturer seemed to be failing. "That thing again?" Grif asked, rather breathlessly. His voice was somewhat shaky, even when he tried to sound cocky despite his current situation. "I still have some fingers left you could work with, you know."

The torturer had obviously been practicing his knifework beforehand. Most of Grif's skin was bloodied but if you looked closely, it became obvious that the deepest cuts were following a specific pattern. The Fed had dug his knife into the long scar and followed it from the forehead, down the torso, over the hip, as if using it as some twisted guideline. The dark and pale skins were now separated by a horrifying, red line that did little more than splutter blood.

But the cuts then turned more original – leaving the scars to create numerous slashes across the upper body and arms.

The Fed said nothing, but tilted his head as he searched for some intact skin to ruin. Judging by the way Grif's body tensed up, he was bracing himself, but his attempt at keeping a neutral expression was ruined by the exhaustion that had seeped into every facial feature.

Taking his time, the torturer let the edge of the knife trail down the arm, just gently enough not the draw blood yet.

The prisoner narrowed his eyes as he realized he was being toyed with once again. " _I_ still have some fingers left to work with," Grif muttered and with his limited movement he made the one act of defiance he was still capable of – stretching out his middle finger.

He barely had the time to feel proud of his rebellious behavior before the Fed reached out, grabbed the unbent finger and _twisted_ until a sickening _snap_ could be heard.

Grif bit down on his swollen lip but he still could not manage to hold back the croaked moan. His body twisted to one side, as if trying to curl together but the unrelenting straps kept his limbs where they were.

"You think this is funny?" the guard grunted, helmet hovering above the prisoner's face. The visor reflected Grif's own face, and the blurred sight of busted lips, a black eye and blood dripping from a gash across the forehead was not exactly humorous.

Usually, Grif was quick to spill. It kept him out of trouble that way. However, with his hand cramping up to add insult to his pain and the harshness of his treatment, Grif was not feeling particularly cooperative. He glared at the guard.

"Definitely, I'm obviously laughing out loud. I can barely contain myself." Getting a hold of his breathing, he tested the strength of the straps again, adding irony to his statement.

He was rewarded with a slap across the face. "What were you told about the Rebels' HQ? Which route were you going to take?"

His face burned. While Sarge's habit of knocking over the head with his shotgun had given him some tough skin throughout the years, this guy was seriously pushing it.

"You know, people who crash in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere don't tend to be the best road maps," Grif replied through gritted teeth. Two of his fingers kept twitching. "And I'm not usually the guy people ask if they want information. They'd ask literally anyone else."

"A guy your size must know your way around. At least to the food storage."

Grif's face was scrunched up in pain, but he somehow found the will to roll his eyes at the comment. "Wow, fat-jokes now? Look, if you want to insult me to death, you can just lock me up in a room with Sarge. Much easier. You're way overdoing it, dude. Take a break."

The gloved hand grabbed his chin tightly, smearing blood across the skin. "You've got a big mouth. Care for me to widen it a bit more?" He lifted a piece of metal from his tray with a low clang, the steel almost shining in the low light. Grif's first thoughts were that they were scissors but they didn't seem bladed. The realization crept up on him as he Fed mockingly rested the metal against his chewed lip.

Grif eyed the tool the best he could while being unable to move his head. "Uh, no thanks."

"Really?" The tip of tong was clanking against one of his teeth now. "Could be your new diet. No teeth, no food. Lose some of that fat and it might loosen your tongue."

"Yeah, 'cause lacking teeth really improves your speech skill," Grif muttered, but his voice was loud enough to earn him another slap. His head hit the metal and he groaned. The guard did not seem too remorseful.

"Look, you're already starving us by not giving us food. Bringing tools into this just means more work for you."

"And what if I say I enjoy my work?" the Fed asked and even though his helmet was hiding his face, his voice made it clear that he was grinning.

Grif's eyes flickered upwards, the corners of his mouth being lifted to reveal his bloodied teeth. "Then you really need a hobby."

Closing his eyes, he readied himself for another hit. When none came, he squinted in expectation, trying to see if the Fed was picking up the knife again. The weight of the tongs had disappeared from his lips.

Pain came, of course, but in the shape of a gloved hand being pressed against his bruised ribs. Squirming, he could not hold back the groans that turned into a mangled scream when the pressure caused something to move under the skin. The ribs had still been trying to recover from the last time the Fed had needed a punching bag, and with today's session, the bones finally gave into a fracture.

Then the pressure disappeared, and Grif tried to let his body relax, while the sweat ran down the face with scrunched up and closed eyes.

"I see your sessions remain unsuccessful." The deep voice could only to one person, and Grif let his stay closed.

"Locus," the Fed gasped – apparently the mercenary's presence caused fear in everyone. "I… The prisoner remains uncooperative, sir."

"These sessions are not for your own entertainment. You've been trusted for this task because we expect you to produce results effectively and quickly, and so far you've failed to live up to these expectations." He did not even cast a glance upon Grif. "I advise you to come up with a new method quickly, and I advise you to choose a method that works."

The Fed saluted him, leaving a crimson stripe across his visor. "Yes, sir."

Grif's opened his eyes into slits as he heard Locus' footsteps fade away down the hallway. When the Fed turned to lean over a nearby tool table, he eyed the movements in suspicion.

"New method," the Fed muttered, seemingly to himself. "Well, that's just fine."

When he lifted up something that looked suspiciously like a shock prod, if the sparks were any hint, Grif seemed to deflate, head lolling back to rest against the table. For a moment it looked like he was about to say something, but then he settled with biting his own lip again, as if in preparation.

The Fed pressed a button again, the prod hissed as it came to life, and the sparks spread until the entire room was engulfed in white.

* * *

Simmons woke up with a tank on his chest. He briefly wondered if this was how Grif had felt back in Blood Gulch so many years ago, but then the lack of air caught up with the cyborg. The tons of metal were crushing down his torso, keeping his lungs from expanding, and _he couldn't breathe_.

The image of Grif strapped to that table was coming to life inside Simmons' mind when his body jolted helplessly on the bed that never quite felt like it belonged to him, and his mouth opened in breathless gasps. His vision was beginning to blur, but the thought of what was awaiting in him unconsciousness kept him from given in. Finally, the invisible grasp on his throat loosened enough to let air in, and Simmons sputtered frantically until his lungs stopped burning.

When his body finally calmed down, it felt like it was made of lead – the fleshy parts of him as well as the cyborg limbs- and that was not really a nice change of things. It felt like the cold knot of dread was growing, spreading the feeling of helplessness, until Simmons could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and try to push away the mental images that kept sneaking back to haunt him.

It wasn't just the lingering impressions – the cold, the red, that sound when the bone snapped – but the fact that he could not just tell himself that it wasn't real. It wasn't like the Sidewinder nightmares or the dreams where his father would be hovering above him, his dark shadow swallowing everything.

Simmons could not calm himself down because he could not tell himself that this wasn't real, 'cause this could be real and _it could be happening right now and Simmons couldn't do anything and-_

When his body was finally able to move again, the first thing it did was to fall off the bed and throw up on the floor. Useless body. Useless mind as well, since it wasn't exactly helping when it kept remembering the nightmare.

At least his stomach had been almost empty, since Simmons' appetite had been utter shit the last couple of weeks. Getting off the ground, the cyborg managed to stumble back to his bed on shaking legs. Burying his head in his hands, he tried to ignore the thoughts that kept creeping up on him.

He needed to ward them off, but just thinking about not thinking about it did technically count as thinking about it and-

One of his metal fingers got tangled up in his hair, and he winched when he pulled his hands away. There were red hairs stuck in the joints. The pain served as a distraction and Simmons was grateful.

If he could just keep his thought on something else than _Grif's expression when the fist connected with skin_ , something else, anything else -

One of the screws on his leg panel had become loose. It was tearing his maroon night pants, the fabric being caught on the metal whenever he dressed and undressed. He should fix that – he'd been aware of the issue for a while now, but he'd lost his cyborg kit in the ship crash, and he hadn't found the time to search through the HQ yet.

But now was the time, _now was the perfect time_ , even though it was actually 1.04am and _they only had two days left_ and they had not even been close at defeating Felix yet.

Simmons was careful not to step in the pool of vomit (he would clean that up later, but right now he needed to focus on that damn screw) as he staggered out of the room. He was briefly aware that he was heading towards the garage, since it was the only logical place to store the needed tools, and there was a low voice in the back of his head whispering, trying to make him conscious of the fact that he was walking down the darkened halls in nightwear and with vomit dripping from his chin, and that this was in no way acceptable behavior from a Captain.

For once Simmons could call himself lucky. The patrols that had been unfortunate enough to receive night duty were nowhere near him as he stumbled down the darkened hallways. It would be fine. He could find his screwdriver, fix his leg in peace, go back to clean up his room and then get a good night's sleep. An easy and simple plan.

So of course it went wrong by the first step. Simmons pulled out every drawer, picked up every screwdriver he could find, tried it, realized it was too big, cursed, and proceeded to try with the next one. He knew he had no right to complain – his cyborg limbs were required sophisticated tools, yes, but that was because they were sophisticated cyborg limbs _keeping him alive_ – but things would have been a bit easier if they had used more traditional parts to build half of his body with. Not that he could change that – it was way too late to tell Sarge to-

Simmons bit his lip and focused on the damned screw again. Focused thoughts. He could do that.

Maybe it would work if he used a hammer? Just smash the screw, forcing it the centimeter back into the rest of the metal. It would not be the traditional way, of course, but if it could work…

When Simmons reached out for the hammer, his fingers brushed against the tongs that had been lying so harmlessly in the drawer as well and –

" _You've got a big mouth. Care for me to widen it a bit more?"_

He immediately pulled back, as if his hand had been burned. He had to think of something else, _anything_ , like-

Like the sound of the top bunk creaking whenever Grif climbed into bed. Or that one wall back in Blood Gulch that Sarge had tried to paint entirely red before running out of paint, leaving what looked like a really gory crime-scene behind. Or Donut's attempt to plant a flower-garden behind the base (only a wide selection of red colored flowers, of course) and Sarge had somehow gotten the idea that they were poisonous, resulting in the red leader throwing them at Blue Base, leaving Church unsure whether they were being attacked or proposed to. And the sound of Donut humming in the kitchen every morning, while Simmons prepared the toasts and made coffee for Grif so he could swallow his…

…pills.

Simmons dropped the hammer, and the sound of it clattering against the floor echoed in the darkened room.

That was definitely a thought to focus on. Especially since Simmons had not paid that fact any mind in… weeks, at least. Perhaps a month? He had not even thought of the problem when their ship had crashed – there had been too much on his mind back then, but he should have remembered it, should have brought it up…

They had all been so concerned about their limited food supply, but he had not even asked Grif if… Holy shit, had he even had his pills back at the crash site? When it came to keeping Grif alive, the pills were just as an important factor as water and food (of course Grif would deny the fact that anything could be more important than food), and Simmons had not even asked…

At least Simmons was not thinking about the nightmare anymore.

His brain was so intensely focused on the fact that Grif did not have his pills and what this might mean that he could feel his system overheat – he could feel the familiar sensation of a short circuit travelling up his spine.

A moment later, Simmons found himself slamming his forehead against the wall repeatedly. The cold touch against his skin was quite nice, actually. Almost soothing. And quite painful, but who cared about headaches anymore?

"Fuck," Simmons said, and at a loss for words, he repeated himself, "Fuck." Finally broadening his vocabulary, he added, "Shit."

He sat there for a while, slowly creating a dent in the wall, until finally –

There was the sound of footsteps to the left, and Simmons turned his head, squinting due to the lack of light. The sight of someone without armor on Chorus always threw him off at first, but he recognized Bitters' dirty blond hair, so long it kept falling into his eyes.

The young soldier was standing in the doorway, blocking the faint light from the hallway. He was staring at Simmons with crossed arms.

For a moment Simmons considered whether or not to say anything. Then he remembered his outburst earlier this day, and he realized he had nothing more to tell the Lieutenant. Stopping his self-punishment for a moment, Simmons let his head rest tiredly against the wall, looking at the silhouette without taking further action.

But Bitters never said anything. He did not even step inside the garage. He walked away as if he had not even acknowledged Simmons' presence.

The cyborg was not sure whether to feel grateful or not, so in the end he just resumed slamming his head against the wall. Seemed like the wisest action at the moment.

"Aw, fuckberries."

Simmons froze for a second before hitting his forehead again one final time. He could take it. Half of his face was metal, anyway. Practical.

Tucker blocked the light from the one lit bulb when he placed himself next to the cyborg. "I feel like I should ask you about this."

Sniffing, Simmons weakly wiped his nose. Of course he had been crying this entire time without noticing it. "I... was trying to fix the screw."

"By slamming your forehead against it?"

"No, it's on my leg."

Tucker looked like he really wanted to run out of the room, and Simmons could not blame him. "Taking a wild guess here, but I don't think it's working that well." With a sigh, he crouched down next to him. "So why are you looking more depressed than Caboose when Church left?"

Simmons considered telling Tucker to fuck off or just say that he was fine or some other pathetic excuse, but the thought of returning to his room was not that appealing right now. Nothing good was waiting for him there.

Turning around to rest his back against his wall, Simmons hugged his knees as he looked at Tucker. "Grif doesn't have his pills."

"Please tell me you're talking about vitamin pills here," Tucker muttered.

"He, uh…" His eyes were burning again, so Simmons turned his head, staring at the wall through his blurry vision. "He kinda needs them to stay alive."

"Shit." Tucker settled down next to him, and Simmons wrinkled his nose as he realized the Blue's shirt was wet with sweat. The smell was kind of familiar, though, almost comforting.

Grif never showered that often.

Tucker cleared his throat. "Okay, so let's try to apply logic here. You like that kind of thing, right?"

Simmons nodded wordlessly.

"Wash was shot in the back of the head." Tucker licked his lips, as if his mouth felt dry. That feeling was not uncommon to Simmons. "And the others were shot as well. So if they're still alive, which they are according to everything we know, that means they got some medical treatment. And doctors have all sorts of pills. It's how they make their money."

"Yeah," Simmons said slowly. That theory was logical. Logic was good. But—

"Great." Straightening out his legs, Tucker stood up to offer Simmons a hand. "Let's get to bed before Kimball spots us and put us on dish duty."

Simmons stared at the hand for a long time without making a move to accept it. Swallowing hard before biting some skin off his lip, he revealed with a stutter, "I, uhm… I've been starting to think that maybe it isn't _that good_ for them if they're still alive." He kept his mouth shut after that, biting down hard on his lip to make sure he could not open it.

It took a couple of seconds before Tucker released this painful, long-drawn sigh. He ran a hand down his face. "Dude, you're seriously not improving my night here."

"Sorry."

"Okay, get up," Tucker then said, voice turning strangely stern. Like when he was really trying to knock some sense into the Lieutenants. Like when he was imitating Wash. Simmons looked up at him, blinked, and when he didn't move, Tucker continued, "Look, either I'm going to drop you off at Donut's room, and we can let him play psychiatrist. _Or_ you can follow me back to my room where I've hidden a bottle of whiskey that I'm willing to share if it'll get you to stop bawling."

Simmons frowned. "We're not allowed to consume alcohol. Kimball said so on her first meeting."

"Are you seriously trying to quote our dorm policy right now? 'cause if you're wasted, you'd at least have a good excuse for running around in the middle of the night with vomit on your t-shirt."

Tucker leaned over to offer him his hand again. Simmons considered the gesture, the offer, Tucker's frown, but also the way his brown eyes had a look of confidence in them.

Swaying slightly, Simmons reached up the grab the Blue's hand.

* * *

A/N: I'll like to make a shout-out to my lovely NJ7009 who has been beta-ing this chapter and has been willing to have hour-long conversations with me about how to put this chapter together. We ended up having this cute fight, like "You're the sadist!" "No, you're the sadist! Heehehehe!"  
And, while many may not believe this, I fully believe I'm the less sadistic person of the two of us. I had the kindest suggestions. I AM THE KINDEST TO THE CHARACTERS!

So a big thanks to NJ7009 for channeling my sadistic tendencies into something productive. You're the greatest. True friendship right there, my dear friend 3 Any comment on how it was to help me with this chap? NJ:"I barely know these characters but Ria is forcing me to torture them. Send assistance."

Oh, also, TheHoundUnit feared that my version of awesome is equal to characters dying while their version of awesome is equal to explosions. So I decided to mix things up. Death by explosion 3

I know this chapter is very late, but I've been spending the pause planning the next chapters. It's a bit hard to keep track of what is happening when I keep jumping between the two bases. So it shouldn't be very long before the next chapter since parts of it is already written! Thank you for bearing with me 3

…this chapter made me realize I have to write even more Simmons and Tucker friendship. Good thing there will be more of that. Also future scenes will involve Donut and Bitters trying to work things out, as well as Sarge trying his luck with Grey, and Grif trying to figure out what to do when living with a Freelancer.


	7. AnticipationAcceptAngst

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue.

 **Shake  
** _Anticipation/Accept/Angst_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used without object,**_ **to move or sway with short, quick, irregular vibratory movements.]**

* * *

Tucker pushed Simmons towards the unrolled sleeping bag that had been placed in the corner of the room. Before lowering his body to find a comfortable place to sit, Simmons sent the messy pile of blankets a questioning look. "You've had company?" he asked and he was unable to hide the confusion in his voice.

"Not like that," Tucker quickly defended himself. "Caboose sometimes gets nightmares, and, well, he'll just wander around and get lost. It's better if we pretend we're still at Blue Base for a night." He placed himself on his own cot, watching as the Red slowly allowed himself to sit on the soft fabric. "But, hey, you do know that when you actually want to bring someone to your bed, you bring them to your bed, right? You don't give them a sleeping bag."

"I know how it works," Simmons muttered. His face was slightly red now.

Tucker held up his hand. "Hey, I didn't know if you've tried it before. Just wanted to clarify so you won't, hopefully, disappoint people in the future."

Simmons looked extremely uncomfortable with this subject: his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were fixated on the floor. "Whatever," he said quietly under his breath. "You said you had whiskey?"

"Wow, you're really not formal about this." Tucker leaned over to reach under his bed, searching a bit before dragging out a bottle. "And no: I don't have any cups."

He had expected Simmons to put up a fuss – Tucker did not believe this was the average Saturday night for the cyborg. Simmons' normal life probably included, well… computers. Comic books and shit. Whatever boring stuff happened in Red Base.

But Simmons immediately made grabby hands, reaching out for the alcohol. Tucker could not help but think of a crying baby being soothed, the way the Simmons immediately put the bottle to his mouth and how there was still a dried tearstain on his flesh cheek.

That just made him think of Junior and – no, no way, he was no going to let Simmons destroy the mood. They spent enough time already being sad, and if Simmons went to the next stage of sadness that would be a mental breakdown for good and they needed all their strength right now in order to take down Felix.

Tucker reached out to snatch the bottle away from the cyborg on the floor: first of all, Simmons needed to slow down or Tucker would have to clean up vomit from the floor later (that is if Simmons hadn't emptied his entire stomach already), and also because Tucker really needed a drink as well.

"Look," he said, once a mouthful of the liquor had slipped down his throat, leaving a burning feeling behind. "I already dragged your ass here – I'm not dragging it to the medical. So just…. Have fun, but not _too_ much fun, okay?"

"I'm not good at fun," Simmons admitted with shame in his voice.

Tucker held back a sigh, looking at the whiskey he now had to share, and then handed it over to the cyborg again. "Then let's think of this as a lesson."

* * *

Bitters sighed loudly, slamming the back of his head against the wall. " _Why_ are we watching this again?" he groaned, closing his eyes.

"Well, watching the recordings from our helmet cams did not prove useful in today's training," Smith explained. He was sitting in a chair, leaning forward to fully concentrate on the screen. "The more we watch it the more we learn from our mistakes."

"Though this isn't exactly improving my self-esteem right now," Jensen admitted. They had all gathered in her sleeping quarters since her roommate had decided to hang out with some of her volleyball friends after training.

Palomo put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, Katie, I think you look great on the screen!"

"Thanks, Palomo! …But I still don't appreciate you staring at my butt."

"Sorry."

Bitters sighed again, louder this time. "This is a waste of time."

"You have to keep to keep up the morale, Bitters. The Captains need us to help save their friends, and we are not going to let them down. If getting better at the training lessons means staying up all night to watch videos, then that is what we have to do," Smith said without removing his eyes from the screen. The only time he actually looked away was when he was writing down notes.

"So what are you possible getting from this? That we suck big time? 'cause that is all what I'm seeing."

"Bitters, are you alright?" Jensen turned around in her chair to stare at him. They had all taken off their armor since their official training hours had ended, and without her helmet her frown was very obvious. "You've seemed very… _down_ today."

"Yeah," Palomo agreed. He squinted when he glared at his friend. "It almost seems like you don't want to be here."

"I don't."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense." Now when that mystery had been solved Palomo turned around to continue to watch himself do push-ups.

Jensen, however, was not satisfied yet. "Is this because all the Captains rejected you?" Her voice was filled with concern but it had that confident edge to it that revealed this was a theory more than a question, and Jensen was always a bit too sure of her theories.

Bitters did not answer which gave Smith the opportunity to comment on it. "It should not be that big a surprise. If you had only shown your willingness to improve your moral earlier then-"

"I don't care," Bitters said quickly. He was losing track of how many times he would say that line during a day. In order to change subject he cast a critical glare towards Smith's notebook. "Just what are you writing down? How many times we fucked up today?"

Smith looked away from the screen that was showing them all being blinded by Caboose' flashbang. "I am indeed registering how and when we failed to live up to our Captains' expectations. In case you want to know, you've been the cause of a failed attempt to take down Felix four times so far."

"This is stupid." Bitters left his chair when he declared his thoughts. From the corner of his eyes he saw Donut getting punched on the screen. "I'm going to bed."

"Bitters-" Jensen began but the door was slammed closed before she could try to convince him to stay.

The cold night air was refreshing, especially after the four lieutenants had been stuck in the small room for so long. It was not even because he was tired. He was just… _done_ with it.

The headache had been plaguing him for hours now, and he knew that in the early morning he would have to get up again to train for a war he never wanted to be a part of, to prepare to save some people he had never even met, to attempt to impress some people he never wanted to please in the first place, to carry a responsibility he had never asked to be given.

Bitters' plan was to head straight to bed, really. A bed seemed like the best way to escape from the shitty reality right now. But then he had walked past the garage, noticed to light inside it and had heard this weird sound, like someone was hammering, and no one was supposed to be working at this time at night.

The only person who could be so interested in finishing their work in the middle of the night would be Matthews, and of course Bitters had to look just to see if it was his roommate.

It wasn't. It was Captain Simmons and he was looking… quite insane, actually. And tired. _Exhausted_. He looked more tired than Bitters felt right now.

Bitters met the Captain's eyes for a second. Then he left. He did not want to deal with this situation. He did not know how to.

Which was why he was so damn grateful when he stumbled into Tucker.

This was the Captains' problem. They should deal with it.

However, the Lieutenant was less grateful when he stumbled into Donut.

He had been walked outside, in the area between the main building and the males' sleeping quarters. A few lamps on the wall made sure he was able to spot the Captain who was sitting on a bench, staring into the darkness. Even though they seemed awfully alone out here, Bitters knew soldiers were patrolling the entire HQ. So they could feel safe. Except nobody really felt that anymore.

Donut noticed him before Bitters did. "Oh, hey, Bitters," he said, greeting him with a slight nod. His voice sounded thick. Patting the other half of the bench, he asked, "Want to sit for a moment?"

Bitters really wanted to say no, especially with the way Donut still had tears in his eyes that were gleaming in the faint light.

But he just could not find a way to say it.

Bitters sat down.

* * *

Tucker had suspected that Simmons was the type of guy who would get drunk very quickly. And he'd been proven right. Not that it was that much of a surprise.

Unfortunately for Tucker's plan of having a fun night (and a fun night with Simmons had sounded pretty unstable plan to begin with) it turned out that Simmons became quite sentimental when you gave him enough alcohol.

That meant a lot of sniffling from Simmons and a lot of dodging potentially tear-jerking subjects from Tucker.

"s'not…" Simmons began, voice slurred by this point. "I can't be Sarge. I try but I _can't_. Not even the accent." He looked up at Tucker with a weird, almost desperate look in his eyes. "m'not like you either. You're… _good_ at this. This thing. Leadership. That's you. Sir."

Tucker mentally decided that if Simmons called him _Sir_ again he would tell him to shut the fuck up 'cause it was so weird and unnerving. But the cyborg's words had caused him to frown, forgetting about the formality in the end. "Dude, I got my entire team, well, except Palomo, killed on a fucking simple hit and run. Wash wouldn't… He wouldn't let that happened." He was the one with the bottle right now, and for some reason he could not tear his eyes away from it right now. "I fucked up _bad_ , Simmons."

"Mhmm," Simmons said, and the Blue was not sure if he was agreeing or disagreeing. "Today… This girl in my squad, she said – well, I _overheard_ her saying she was bleeding, and I thought… It was possible she had been injured, and I just wanted to check…" The cyborg's expression turned crestfallen. "…I wasn't meant to have heard that. It was the _wrong kind of bleeding_." He visibly shuddered as he relived the memories.

Tucker's face contorted, unsure whether to show pity or amusement. "Okay, that's… pretty bad as well."

"I think I might have fainted," Simmons revealed with a shameful voice.

Unable to hold back a snort, Tucker appreciated how Simmons could at least turn the somber subjects pretty damn fun – even if he had not intended to. "Well, you definitely earned this." He handed him the bottle again which the cyborg gratefully accepted.

The cyborg fell quiet as he drank. Even after he removed it from his lips, he stayed quiet for almost half a minute. Then Simmons looked at the bottle he was holding, then back at Tucker with a grateful expression, as if just now realizing the Blue had shared his alcohol with him. "Are we… Are we best friends now?"

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Dude, don't be like Caboose."

Simmons sniffed, eyes watering, which meant that he was thinking of Grif. His glance was lowered until he was looking at his lap. "I don't have a best friend anymore," he muttered, voice low with grief.

Though the cyborg's statement was quiet and obviously affected by alcohol, it still hit Tucker like a punch to the gut. Ever since joining the Feds he had made a point out of believing all the good news (well, maybe _good_ was a too strong word, but at least the news weren't that terrible), like their friends being alive, which had to mean they had been treated by a doctor. Otherwise, a hit to the head like Wash had received… But they were alive. Kimball had told them that. She had been sure of it; the scouts had brought back proof and everything.

And when their friends were alive, it meant they had something to fight for.

That was the thing he and Wash had come to conclude during one of their late night conversations. When Wash had woken up from a nightmare that consisted of memories more than imagination, and that left the Freelancer restless with the feeling of guilt and grief and fear.

And while Wash' past had been more than shitty and he had lost too damn much, he had a new life now. With new people. And every day was about enjoying this new life with these people.

So yeah – now when their friends were definitely not dead, that meant Tucker and the other Captains had every reason to fight with the Rebels and deal with the shit they were facing every day in the HQ with too young lieutenants and a way too confident Felix.

"Grif's not dead," he replied, a bit sharper than he had meant to. But he was too tired to deal with this shit. "None of them are. Why should we be fighting if they're dead?"

"Bitters said Kimball lied to get us to fight," Simmons muttered and lifted his head a bit.

Yeah, Tucker had heard about that. But he knew it wasn't true. 'cause Kimball had said they had been sure. And there was no way in hell they had gone through all this shit just to find out they had been lied to. Besides, it was foolish to believe such stupid rumors, because if they believed that they would stop fighting, and if they stop fighting they would let down the others who could still be alive. "Well, Bitters is an ass-swipe."

"Yeah," Simmons said and managed to create a small, sad smile. "Yeah." Then his almost happy expression crumbled instantly, and he looked absolutely devastated again. "No. I mean kinda. But… I fucked up bad. With Bitters. I thought… I thought he was Grif. And I shouted at him."

"Yeah… You two tended to do that a lot. And Bitters share a _strangely_ big amount of similarities with Grif. It's kinda creepy."

"Shouldn't 'ave been confused," Simmons muttered, seemingly to himself. "'cause he's not here, and I _know_ that but I- _Fuck_." His cyborg hand was now gripping the bottle so tightly that cracks had started to appear in the glass. "I miss him. I miss him _so much_ and I still hate him and I'm _so_ mad-" He cut himself with a broken sob.

Tucker reached forward to snatch the bottle out of the cyborg's hand. They only had very little alcohol left now and Tucker was not going to see those remains wasted on the floor. "Dude, that went from an almost love-confession to hatred real fast. Just who are you mad at?"

"Me. Myself I guess. For fucking up. And… and Locus and the Feds for fucking up everything. And the Lieutenants 'cause they suck. And _we_ suck. And Grif because he's so fucking slow. I'm just _mad_. 'cause this stupid shit shouldn't have happened. And we shouldn't have let it happen. But we fucked up."

"Fuck, stop talking," Tucker shook his head. The alcohol must have reached his vision now, by the way Simmons' t-shirt became a wide, maroon blue. "You're making shit depressive again. We're not doing that here."

"Oh." Simmons let out a small hiccup. "Time for… for fun facts. Right?"

"What?"

Simmons was now wearing a serious expression, as if presenting a new strategy to win the war. Tucker was beginning to believe that most of the cyborg's thoughts would be shaped into a classroom presentations complete with diagrams. Nodding slowly, Simmons said, "Fun facts are fun. They help."

"Alright." Tucker leaned forward in anticipation, hands on his knees. "Shoot me."

Simmons bit his lips in concentration. Well, it was not always easy to put together words when drunk. Tucker would know.

But then, after good ten seconds of intense thinking, Simmons stared at the Blue and said, "My… my butt is made from a fax machine."

Tucker let out a laughter that sounded like a dying animal. It wasn't just the absurdity of the fact itself (and, holy fuck, that was so fucking weird and stupid and of course it happened to the Reds) but the timing and Simmons' way of building up tension. "Holy shit," he gasped when he finally managed to gather enough air to talk. "Does… Does Grif know that?"

Simmons nodded again, movements slow in a grave manner. "It's okay. I gave up my butt for him. The flesh one. Not the fax."

Choking on a chuckle again, Tucker was slapping his palms against his knees in order to keep it back.

In a matter of a second, Simmons' expression seemed to falter, the sadness in his eyes seeping into the rest of his facial features. "I don't… know if Grif likes my fax butt."

"Aright, time for bed," Tucker replied quickly. While Simmons' butt was certainly a fun fact Tucker did not intend to spend the rest of the night talking about it. Besides he had accidently looked at his digital watch and _fuck_ – they would only get a few hours of sleep this night. This morning's training sessions were not going to be fun.

Maybe a fun night with Simmons had not been the best idea after all.

…even thought that fax butt comment did make the future headache worth it.

"Yeah. Fuck. We're gonna… This is gonna give us a hangover, right?" He looked absolutely terrified at the thought. Tucker wondered how long ago it had been since Simmons last had gotten drunk.

"Probably."

" _Fuck_."

"Yep."

Simmons groaned, running a hand down his face. "Kimball's gonna kill us."

Tucker shrugged. "Only if she finds out." But, yeah, the headache they were going to be having was only one more reason to shout at Palomo.

Suddenly, Simmons let out another whimper, and Tucker sighed 'cause he had been trying his best to keep the cyborg from crying the entire night and that was a job much harder than expected. "I threw up in my room." While Simmons was still covering his face with his hands, his fingers were spread apart to reveal the absolutely terrified eyes. "And I forgot about it."

Tucker grimaced as he imagined that scenario. That was definitely not a nice way to welcome to cyborg back home to the little room that never really felt like a home in the first place. He could already smell the mess. "You could stay here." He gestured towards the blankets that Simmons was already sitting on. "I mean, Caboose does it." It was probably safer anyway. Tucker had the horrible fear that if he let Simmons try to walk back home alone he would just stumble into the radioactive water and drown or something.

"Thanks," Simmons said with a sigh of relief. He had already begun to crawl under the blankets.

"Only for one night," Tucker warned him sternly. "'cause Caboose is going to want to sleep here too, and if Donut finds out, he'll announce a fucking sleepover and invite everyone else."

Simmons muttered something that sounded like he agreed. He was probably already half-asleep. Tucker could feel his own eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Following Simmons' example, he lay down in his bed and pulled the blanket up to his shoulder.

He had just flicked off the light-switch, leaving the room in darkness, when Simmons suddenly spoke very quietly, "He kissed me."

Tucker immediately opened his eyes. "Wha- _Grif_ kissed- Hah, I knew it! Oh man, fucking great. I gotta tell Church he lost the bet and now owes me 20 bucks. He'll be so mad…" Tucker trailed off, suddenly remembering that Church had left them and he was _so fucking angry_ with the AI that he did not even know how to start a conversation when (if) he saw the AI again.

"Back in Valhalla," Simmons continued quietly and Tucker really wished he could see the cyborg's face right now but something kept him from reaching up to turn on the light. "He- _we_ were really drunk."

"That's not really a surprise."

"It was probably a mistake," Simmons muttered.

It was so tempting to flick the switch to have this conversation face to face, but the sudden light would probably scare Simmons away from the subject. "Dude, you two are in love. It probably wasn't."

"No," Simmons whispered into the darkness, just loud enough for Tucker to hear. "It was a _mistake_."

"How the fuck can you turn a kiss depressing? I'm surprised you haven't bragged about this before. No, wait, I'm surprised that you two didn't bitch about this before. Just how did you manage to keep this a secret from Donut?" Tucker had rolled over to stare at the spot where Simmons had to be lying. The cyborg did not answer him. "Simmons?"

After some seconds, he noticed the slow, rhythmic wheezing that he recognized seconds later as Simmons' breathing, the weird sound caused by his cyborg lungs. He had fallen asleep. In the middle of the conversation that Tucker actually wanted to continue.

Tucker thought about waking him up but they honestly needed the sleep. He had feared that the cyborg would be unable to sleep, crying quietly in the bed or something, but at least that had not turned out to be a problem.

He adjusted his position so he was staring at the ceiling. "Wow," Tucker said, thinking about what a drunken Simmons had just revealed to him, and then his thoughts wandered towards Wash.

* * *

"Is this because I'm not in my quarters? 'cause I was just taking a piss," Bitters said just in case. He would rather not be stuck on dish duty again. He could not seem to get comfortable on the cold bench – instead his muscles remained tense as he was ready to leap away from this strange situation at any moment.

Donut turned his head to smile at him – this small, sad smile that didn't really reach his eyes. It was clear that the Captain had not been a happy mood before Bitters had stumbled into him. "Oh, I didn't realize it had become that late! Time flies."

Then he fell quiet and Bitters did not know what to say so that left them in silence. However that only seemed even more uncomfortable, so Bitters asked, "Do you need anything or…?"

Donut blinked as if suddenly remembering just why he had called for his Lieutenant in the first place. "I wanted to apologize for Simmons' behavior. I saw what happened and… I feel that you should know that the poor guy hasn't really been feeling well lately." Donut folded his hands, turning his head slightly to stare into the darkness again. "This is a very new place for us, and we're not really used to being split up. Well, I may have almost died every once in a while but I always bounce right back up. Simmons is not that quick to rise. And he's been down for some time now. Without Grif and Sarge, oh, and we must not forget Lopez either, Simmons becomes very… _worried_. And then with this new promotion he has to deal with new responsibilities. That's a very straining position, and no wonder if his head feels like it's about to burst, but that should not have happened in your face."

Bitters needed some seconds to think about how to reply to that. Eventually, he just said, "Yeah."

"And not to mention the pressure I've put on _you_! Bitters, I know that you did not exactly ask for this, and that you may have fought against it at times, but while I may have forced you into this position I think you've been taking things rather well."

"I have?" Bitters said, honestly confused. Mainly because whenever Donut said something he had replay the sentences twice and order to figure out what he meant.

Donut nodded in excitement. The last traces of sadness seemed to have vanished from his expression. "You're young and inexperienced and none of you asked for this. But you go out there and you give it a shot, even though it might seem meaningless. And that's the spirit!" Donut chuckled slightly, apparently to himself. "I mean if nobody ever searched for headlight fluid we'd be living in a pretty dry world!"

"I think you lost me there."

Turning around to face the Lieutenant again, Donut put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What I'm trying to say, Bitters, is that I believe in you."

Bitters frowned before slowly, almost casually shaking the hand off himself. "Thanks. I guess."

Donut's smile grew even bigger now when he believed he had fixed Simmons' mistakes. "And I think we've both come to realize that you are stuck on Pink Team."

"Yeah… I, uhm, kinda figured that out today."

"Well, I just wanted to make sure your spirit wasn't low. We need all the spirit we can today."

Bitters wished he had his helmet so he could see what time it was. But if his sense of time was correct then it wouldn't be too long before they had to get up again.

"And I'm not just walking about the morning lessons," Donut continued. His face grew oddly gentle as he explained, "I'll be joining the memorial service later today. I heard Kimball talk about, and I want to pay my respects."

Right. Bitters had almost forgotten the memorial service that had become a weekly phenomenon where they would remember the soldiers that had fallen this week. Bradner and Meagher would be mentioned this time. Bitters had forgotten when the services had just become a part of the weekly routine.

He drew back, unsure of how to respond to this.

Donut sighed. "It's easy to forget that you guys have lost friends as well."

"Yeah," Bitters said and stood up, escaping this subject as quickly as possible. "I should…" He gestured with his head towards the direction of the sleeping barracks.

Nodding, Donut said, "Of course! We need a good night's beauty sleep to be prepared to take down Felix." Realizing he was not in his bed, he chuckled, "I guess I'm not exactly setting a good example."

Bitters shrugged, already taking the first steps away from the bench.

"I'll just… sit here for a little while," Donut said, placing his hands on his lap again. "Goodnight, Bitters."

The Lieutenant gave a week salute before walking away with big steps. While this conversation had not been something Bitters had wanted to experience, it had gone better than expected. Maybe Bitters would never think about the stuff Donut had brought up ever again, but at least he did not feel actually traumatized.

The headache was still there, however, as well as his longing for his bed.

Which was why he cursed his bad luck when he rounded a corner and ran directly into Caboose. The Captain was wearing his full body armor, unlike the three other Captains Bitters had stumbled into this night.

"Hello!" Caboose greeted him.

"Hi," Bitters replied shortly, lowering his glance until he was staring directly at the orange traffic cone that Caboose was currently holding. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

The blue Captain looked down to see what he was staring at. "I'm creating a surprise," he revealed with a very serious voice. "Which have now turned into a secret. Oh." He raised his head again, looking at Bitters. "Will you keep the secret?"

Bitters was not exactly sure when a cone had become a secret, so he said, "Okay?"

"Good! If not I would have asked you to forget you have seen this. Otherwise, it would not be much of a secret. And the best surprises are secrets until they are not. It's very complicated."

Giving him a weak thumbs-up, Bitters hoped this conversation would end as quickly as possible. Tilting his head, he could not help but ask, "Is that one of the cones we use for training?"

While Caboose's expression was hidden by a helmet, he could feel the way the Captain was squinting at him. "Our secret," he said again, very gravely. "There are more if you want to give your friends one. But I do not know if they like the color orange."

"It's a nice color," Bitters said, almost snorting. Perhaps if he agreed with the Captain, he would move along.

His comment seemed to work as Caboose straightened out his back, looking very proud. "Thank you. I'm very good at picking colors. Which is why my team is Blue. Because we are Blue Team. The other Blue Team, not the original one."

"Alright," Bitters said, slowly maneuvering his way around Caboose. "I'll just go to bed now."

"Don't tell about the secret!"

"I won't," Bitters promised before escaping down the hall. He let out a deep breath when Caboose was out of sight and he reached up to rub his temples. He had two hours to get rid of this headache before he would get a new one when Felix would kick their asses.

It was first when he had crawled under his blankets that he wondered just why Caboose was hoarding cones in secret.

Then Bitters firmly decided that Caboose was not a part of his team and therefore not Bitters' problem.

But still the many strange events of the night left him unable to sleep.

* * *

A/N: First of all: THANK YOU SO MUCH, GUYS! We reached 100kudos and that is so freaking amazing! I am still freaking out! And we still have so much left! Yeah, I can already reveal this story does _not_ end when they the Captains reach the Fed base. What, did you really think I would let the boys go that easy? Nah, they have a lot to go through yet! I hope you will all stick around!

Donut would be a very good Captain. Nothing can convince me otherwise. I need Captain Donut. Also, _Captain Donut_ sounds like a weird brand of American snackcakes. Or is it just me?

So I realized I have abandoned Caboose for too long. So I'm gonna include more scenes with him 'cause I feel bad about it. Poor Caboose.

Also, Bitters' weird night is inspired by the time I went to a Christmas Lunch at my university (annual parties known for drinking a lot of alcohol), hated the entre thing, had an awful night, just wanted to go home, and on my way towards the bus I managed to run into three of my professors who were now _really_ drunk. It was so weird. I entered the bus with an expression screaming "What s my life?", "I am so done with this" and "For the love of god, just let me sleep". This is basically Bitters in this chapter.

Next chapter will include more Caboose, we will hear more about that Grimmons kiss, and we will finally see more to Grif and the others on the Fed base. Things aren't exactly that going smoothly there either.

It'll probably be some weeks before this story is updated again. My plan is to work on a one-shot next and then update my two other multi-chapter stories. But this hopefully won't take too long.


	8. Smoke Breaks

A/N: I do not own Red vs. Blue

 **Shake  
** _Smoke Breaks_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used with object,**_ **to** **get** **rid** **of;** **elude:]**

* * *

Grif slowly came to the conclusion that Wash may be the worst of the Blues to be stuck with. He appreciated the Freelancer's instinct to be the protective leader and the bravery to face off with Locus. And sure, they may have had some kind of moment that night when Grif had suffered from a nightmare.

But then things just got strange after that.

Grif wished he could have been stuck with Tucker. That would have been easy to deal with. They would have gotten along easily and Tucker would have hated this situation too and they could have bitched about and then they would have tried to find the fastest, stupidest way back to the others.

Even Caboose was to be preferred over the Freelancer. Hell, while Caboose was sure to be a headache, Grif would just have needed to keep him distracted, throw a ball or something, and that would have been that. Keep the idiot out of trouble and leave him with Sarge if necessary.

But Grif was still trying to figure out Wash. Which was to be expected. The Freelancer was not exactly an open book. The problem was that Wash was trying to figure out Grif.

The Freelancer was staring at him more than he should. He threw glances at him the other night when Grif was kept turning over in his bed, restlessness keeping him awake, an itching under his skin. Wash had also been staring whenever Grif had shoveled all the food he could get his hands on onto his tray. And whenever one of the Fed had tried to start a conversation with him and Grif's body had jerked back slightly because these guys were weird and not his friends.

Wash was staring at him the same way Simmons and Donut had used to back when they had all been stuffed in the same stupid base and trying to get to know each other. Donut had been to first to drop the stupid thing. It had taken Simmons longer to get rid of the expression that made Grif feel like he was some sort of puzzle that the nerd was trying to solve. Then, eventually, they had come to realize that Grif had his habits. Which he was allowed to. If Donut was allowed to mark his underwear with weekdays then Grif was allowed to have his own slow routine when it came to living.

But Wash had Simmons' stupid thinking expression. He was trying to figure out Grif. And Grif could already guess his thoughts. Restlessness and emotional eating? Wash was probably deciding that Grif was a mess he had to keep an eye on. Kinda like the same way that Grif had decided that Wash was a mess that needed to be kept an eye on. Except the fact that Wash had always been a mess.

But Grif had Wash' scrutinizing glare on him and no matter how many times Grif tried to shrug him off, the Freelancer would still be eying him. He did the same thing with Sarge but the leader of the Red Team was keeping himself busy while Grif was just aimlessly wandering around.

That seemed to annoy Wash. The same way Wash' glare annoyed Grif.

Emotions sucked.

But, honestly, Grif blamed the base they were now stuck at. It sucked. It did not have any good napping spots, and whenever he had managed to find a relatively quiet place to squeeze himself in between, he could never seem to get comfortable. The entire place was just so damn cold.

It didn't have any snacks either. Grif had searched through the entire mess hall. When that had proven unsuccessful, he had even broken the lock to the food storage, just to see if they were hiding them from him.

That had turned out as a failure as well and he had eventually just stopped a soldier passing by, making his voice stern since they already treated him like he was an important person or some shit. He could just as well use it as an opportunity. "Where do you guys keep the snack cakes?"

The guy managed to look confused, even with his helmet on. It reminded Grif of Simmons. "Ex-excuse me, sir?"

"Oreos can do as well," Grif said with a slight shrug. "Danish? Donuts?" It felt weird, saying that word out loud now. The soldier shook his head. "C'mon, you guys are killing me. You must have some snacks stashed somewhere."

"Not really," the guy admitted with a defeated voice. "Not since before the war."

Grif truly felt pity for a moment. Poor guy.

They were truly stuck in hell.

* * *

It had been Doyle who had carefully suggested that they could "train his men in order to avoid further deaths."

Grif had let out a snort and stared, waiting for the general to come with the punchline. He didn't. Doyle actually expected them to do work.

And Wash had agreed, saying he could look over some troops. Sarge had offered to lend a hand as well. Poor Feds never knew what they were about to face.

But this sudden agreement meant that Grif suddenly had duties to avoid.

He did this by wandering aimlessly down the hallways, pretending to be busy. But even that was a pain when he was surrounded by assholes.

First he stumbled upon Sarge who was trying to charm Grey. The sight was almost enough to upset Grif's otherwise sturdy stomach.

It did not help when he realized they were talking about him, or more specifically, his surgery.

"How is he still alive?" Grey asked in wonder when Sarge finished his tale.

"I ask myself that question every day," the Red Team's leader revealed. He noticed they were no longer alone. Grif had prepared himself to be shouted at, but Sarge merely waved him over, "Grif! Come here, I need you for a demonstration. The Doctor wants to know just how you survived that massive blood loss-"

"No, Sarge, I am not letting you cut me up as a demonstration," Grif replied flatly even before Sarge had finished.

"How else am I supposed to demonstrate my surgeon skills? You never manage to step on the mines I've laid out for you."

Grif frowned (was that something he had to worry about from now on?) but never had to chance to ask further into it before Grey spoke, "Actually, I do have some questions about your liver, I you don't mind."

Well, Grif had never been particular eager to talk about his liver, or any other organs actually, and a conversation with Sarge and Grey was not really the way to brighten up his day.

Actually, was not really sure how to brighten up anything anymore. No snacks, no good naps, no bickering with Simmons to take his mind of things.

Deciding to take the easy way out, Grif backed away he said, "Gotta go, actually. Wash needed some help with the squads."

"What? He needs a living target cone?"

He flipped off Sarge and headed in the other direction of the training yard. Wash was probably doing fine. Not like anyone needed Grif to show them how to be a real soldier. Not like Grif wanted to, either.

* * *

While Locus had managed to freak out Lopez to a point where Grif had feared he would suffer a short circuit, it turned out the rest of the citizens of Chorus had not suffered through Spanish lessons. That had calmed Lopez down a little.

Until the robot found a way to be annoyed by the fact that no one understood him.

Grif had continued his aimless march down the hallways, and at some point he must have strolled into the garage where Lopez pulled a mechanic to the side, waving his arms in big motions as he tried to explain himself. "¿Dónde. Hacer. Tú. Guardar. Los. Llaves?" [Where. Do. You. Keep. The. Wrenches?]

"I, uh…" The poor Fed glanced at Grif for help – and the orange soldier had to hold back a snort. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir."

"Llaves. ¿ Dónde?" [Wrenches. Where.] When no response came from mechanic, the robot continued to twist his wrist, mimicking how to work with a wrench. "Llave. Llaaaave." [Wrench. Wreeench.]

Grif let Lopez play charades for half a minute but then he saw the opportunity to create some fun in this dull, dull, cold place. "Yeah, that's what I feared. Rusty balls."

Lopez stared at him.

"It's what happens when you put him in a closet like that. Polishing his parts is just a part of the maintenance. He even showed you how to do it." The orange soldier lazily made the hand motion Lopez had exaggerated a minute before. Grif winked at the mechanic, forgetting the fact he was wearing a helmet. "Quick motions. You might want to wear a glove."

He had barely finished his sentence before Lopez hit him over his head. "Ow," he grumbled, and rubbed the back of his helmet. "Take a joke, you piece of tin- _ow_. Stop it."

Lopez was still glaring at him, looking like he might lash out again. The mechanist had tilted his head, obviously very confused if not actually fearful. Apparently he was not used to polishing a robot's nuts. "I… Uhm… Uh…"

"I was just kidding," Grif grumbled. He was literally stuck in the most boring place on… Chorus? That was the name, right? "Look, I don't know what the fuck he's saying. Never have. If you want to continue a conversation with him, you gotta find a dictionary or fetch Locus." Grif froze the moment the words slipped past his lips. "Actually, don't fetch Locus. That would be a mood-killer."

The Fed nodded. While Locus was definitely a respected soldier around here, the respect often turned into fear. Grif knew he wasn't the only one who liked the stay clear of the hallways that the mercenary would pass through.

Lopez still looked like he was about unleash his anger again and Grif backed away for own his safety. This place was bad enough without a headache to deal with.

Before the mechanist could ask Grif for further help he slipped out of the garage. No fun there either.

* * *

The moment Grif stepped outside he was almost immediately ran over by a group of Feds, jogging around the square outside area between the main buildings. They all quickly apologized but never halted their run.

Yeah, Wash was definitely working.

Asides from the group running laps, the Freelancer was also yelling orders at some Feds that had been lined up as a firing squad in the other end with cones as their targets. The running soldiers kept a safe distance from them – for obvious reasons.

Grif never really counted himself a great soldier but even he could see that these guys sucked. Wash must be training some of the younger Feds – that was definitely a way to keep busy.

"You're holding it wrong," Wash said and moved closer to one specific soldier who had been aiming at the ground rather than the cone. "Straighten out your back." He paused, looking at the soldier's stance before adding, "And tighten your grip on your gun before you drop it."

Normally Grif would have liked to stay as far away from training sessions as possible, but seeing the Fed lifting his rifle to aim – it all brought back a horrible sense of deja vu. It reminded him of that nightmare some nights ago when a Fed had been aiming at Simmons, and that just left that weird sort of pain in his gut, like hunger but worse.

Grif did not like being reminded of Simmons (dream Simmons but whatever) being killed by a Fed.

He also did not like the fact that Wash was making the Feds more capable of killing Simmons.

"What the fuck are you doing?" his mouth said before he could stop himself.

Wash froze, tilting his head as he looked Grif over. "Doyle said the troops were in need of some general training. The last few weeks have been hard on their numbers."

"So you're teaching them how to kill and not be killed," Grif concluded and crossed his arms. "What a great idea!"

The sarcasm was not lost on the young Fed next to them who nervously told them, "I, uh… I like not being killed, sir."

"Sure you do," Grif replied, not even looking at him. He kept his visor fixated on Wash. "Seriously, _this_ -" he gestured towards the busy training area, "-a bad idea."

"I know this isn't ideal but it's our best option." Wash stopped as he became distracted by the fact that the soldiers seemed to be unleashing their anger on the wall rather than the cones. "You have a better chance of hitting them if you try to try to _aim_ ," he barked before turning back to Grif. "If we help them get to the others-"

"Yeah, if they don't just get 'em," Grif muttered under his breath.

"If we can neutralize one of the Rebel troops we can gather more intel. And if the others happen to be a part of the group-"

"They get killed?" Grif finished for him.

" _Neutralized_."

"Yeah, like Locus neutralized us."

Wash hesitated for a moment, realizing that arguing with a bitter Grif required more than simple facts no matter how true they might be. "If this was a simple as just reaching them-" He trailed off again, noticing that the running group had suddenly become the walking group. "Did I tell you to stop running?!"

Grif knew it was complicated. Even if they managed to find a group containing their friends outside the rebels' HQ they would be met by gunfire. Even if the Reds and Blue would stop themselves from firing chances were they would still be caught in the crossfire. And the Feds really did not want to risk the lives of their new heroes, which was the main reason why they had to stay inside the various bases they were being transported around to.

"I get it," Grif said bitterly. "Not like they would ever trust anything these guys say."

The Fed let out an offended huff but kept firing.

"Even if this isn't our fight we don't really…" Wash seemed unable to finish his own sentence and instead he began another, "If we want to get to the others this seems to be the way."

The Fed suddenly seemed to be having trouble, firing with jerky motions, unable to remove his finger from the trigger. "Uhm… Help?" Grif ignored him.

"Look, I've spent enough time fighting some other idiot's war – which turned out not to be a war at all," Grif ranted, tearing his glance away to stare at the training Feds. "So, yeah, this isn't my problem. I don't give a shit about their stupid war."

Wash' tone of voice indicated he was not happy. Which was fine. Grif wasn't a Blue, he did not need to suck up to him. He probably would not even have done it even if he was a Blue. "The others might need you to give a shit, Grif."

The Fed was now firing wildly at the ground, seemingly in panic. "I'm losing my shit!" he panicked, almost hyperventilating until Wash tore the weapon from him.

"See?!" Grif pointed at the startled Fed. "You're craving everyone's shit. You're robbing their shit. And that's-" He trailed off, not exactly remembering what he had been going for. But then he remembered the fact that Wash was teaching these guys how to kill and that fueled his anger again. "You're full of shit and I'm not giving you any. So fuck this."

He turned around to leave but Wash attempted to stop him. "Grif-"

Luckily, the group of running soldiers collapsed in front of the Freelancer. "No more laps – please."

By the time Wash managed to maneuver around them around them, Grif was already gone.

Wash sighed.

* * *

Grif had been trying to cut down on his smokes. Not because of all the shit that Simmons had kept telling him – _my_ lungs blah blah blah lung cancer blah blah blah, who gave a shit?

The reason why he had to hold back was because he only had one package left. And since this hellhole did not even have Oreos, he really doubted they had cigarettes.

And as much as he would have liked to get rid of the stress by smoking, now when snacks were not an option, he knew it was better if he saved them for…

He was not really sure what. He was not really sure what was going to happen from here. It was hard to imagine that they could miraculously save their friends with the slow rate of how things were progressing here. So… what – they would be stuck in two separate ends of this asshole planet? Shooting at each other 'cause they didn't have another choice?

Irony had always seemed to follow Grif around.

But today had been especially bad since Wash, Sarge and Lopez had not realized they were being stupid.

Grif placed a smoke between his lips and promised himself that he would never be a Fed.

The more dangerous they made the Feds, the bigger the chances were that their friends were going to get themselves killed. And if the others had truly become brainwashed terrorists then they would probably run straight into gunfire.

And while the lives of the Feds definitely sucked (no snacks for years – yeah, Grif did pity them) he could not see himself as their salvation.

To more he thought about it, the more he realized he did not care about the Feds. If Grif was a free man, he would leave this place.

What was the worst thing that could happen? The Rebels weren't going to shoot him – they were going to capture and brainwash him. And he could deal with that. Maybe he could even manage to tell the others to truth about the Rebels before he was brainwashed.

If they could all just escape the Feds and the Rebels they could create some neutral party. Like Doc. Except with the actual medic stuff. So very much like Doc, actually.

This was not their war. And they should not be killed for it.

Grif thought about Simmons bleeding out on the forest floor and he shuddered.

Yeah, this was definitely not their war.

The Fed Base did not offer a good variety of hiding place. Not like Grif truly needed them – Simmons was no longer there to shout at him for smoking. But Grif did flinch when a person suddenly walked by the rail he was leaning against. He was not in the mood to face Wash right now.

But it was just a Fed. He froze when he saw what Grif was doing.

Grif frowned. "What? Smoking's not allowed here?" Not like he would follow those rules but it would be nice to know if he needed to hide or not.

"No, it's just…" He paused, apparently amazed. "It's been so _long_ since I've seen those."

"What? Smokes?"

The Fed nodded, visor fixated on the package that Grif was holding up. Biting his lip, Grif thought about his options for a second. His very limited options. And his stupid plan that still seemed to be more logical then what was going on now. Well, sacrifices had to be made. With a sigh he threw the package towards the Fed who caught it with fumbling hands.

Grif gave him a short nod when he looked up and then the Fed immediately tore off his helmet. He looked younger than Grif had expected and there was an almost childish joy in his eyes. Maybe it was just the smokes. Grif handed him a lighter to get him going. "Yeah, I'm gonna ask for a favor for all this," he said as the soldier lit up his first cigarette.

The Fed froze, eyes narrowing as he feared this was a trap. Which it kinda was. But Grif had seen worse traps. "What?"

"I just…" Grif thought about how to put the words right. "Need a smoke break. Outside the base. Just for a short while. Preferable at night."

"You're ditching us?" the Fed asked. Well, he certainly wasn't talking about the subject.

"Nah," Grif lied. "Just need a small break. I'll come back with more of those. That was my last package. C'mon, buddy, you owe me."

The Fed looked like he might just throw the package back in his face but eventually he sighed. "The shifts changes at 1.15am. This place should be deserted by then. No one really dares to walk outside their route."

"What?" Grif asked. "Otherwise Locus breaks your ankles?"

With a winch, the Fed replied, "Yeah, that's the common threat among the guards."

Shit, Locus was probably the guy to complete that threat. Grif decided not to ask further into it.

He looked over the railing he was leaning against. It was a pretty tall drop but he could probably make it. Once he was on the snowy ground, he just had to avoid the lights and stay unnoticed. If he kept walking south the snow would have to disappear at some point. Grif knew the Rebels stayed in the jungle where they were hard to find. He just needed to wander far enough.

"Okay, great, thanks," Grif said shortly, thoughts focused on how he was going to escape the room he shared with Wash. Fuck, how was he going to sneak past him? He doubted Wash would join him in this stupid plan.

The Fed looked at him again. "You're gonna return, right? It's not some trick?"

"Dude, you have to trust me on this. I'm your superior and all that."

"Right," the Fed said and then added cheerfully, "I'm Gelman." He sent Grif a big smile.

Oh god, someone had confused trust with friendship. Grif did not smile back but tried his luck with a polite nod. He sent the package of cigarettes a longing glance. "You better enjoy those."

Gelman nodded. "I mean, you can have one." He quickly fished up a cigarette that he offered him with no hesitation.

Grif let out an amused snort as he accepted it. So maybe not all Feds were that bad.

* * *

Things were going well. Things were going well and that meant that shit was about to happen.

Things did not just go well. Grif's life was one pile of shit after another. Shitty childhood, mom leaving, the draft, all the fucked up things that happened since he had become a soldier. Things _never_ went well. It was one moment of piece and the Blues set off some chain reaction or something.

But things were going surprisingly smoothly tonight – and Grif was growing more and more suspicious.

He had managed to sneak out of their room. Not only that, he had managed to dress himself in armor without waking up Wash.

Grif had been pretending to be asleep the moment Wash had entered their room to go to bed. He had avoided him during dinner too. 'cause talking about stuff that had happened was never Grif's first choice.

The Freelancer had let him be, thank god, and he did not as much as move when Grif put on his armor as soundlessly as possible. Grif made sure of that – he kept his eyes on the sleeping Freelancer the entire time.

Grif had slipped out of the room without a sound, hiding further down the hallway just in case Wash was indeed trying to follow him. But nothing had happened. He had waited for two minutes until he realized his time was running out and he had to go now. Maybe Wash was just too tired after all that training. Grif knew that if the roles had been swapped, he would have slept through the entire night, even with a hurricane raging outside.

Slipping through the rest of the base had been easy enough. It all reminded him of Basic where he would sneak out almost every night to have his smoke.

He saw the guards change patrols from a distance – then he rushed towards the railing before it was too late.

His knees hurt when landed and he stumbled a bit, but the drop was not that bad. He regretted not having a weapon on him but all their weapons were kept in a storage during the night, unlike their armor which was allowed in their private quarters. Going for his rifle would have meant a bigger chance of getting caught.

Not like he was going to use it anyway. Plan was to surrender to the rebels – so not shooting the rebels was step one. Step two would be… hands in the air? White flag? Something like that.

Maybe it was not the best plan but Grif had never had something against surrendering before. Today was a good day to surrender. If he managed to find them today.

He had reached the beginning of what looked like a very dead forest. Dark trees with no leaves. The cold fucked up everything. But at least it provided him some cover, and it was better than being out in the open. There was no commotion behind him so it seemed like his escape had gone unnoticed.

In his dream version of his plan the Rebels would not shoot him. They would recognize his orange armor and think "Oh, that's one of the guys we need alive." Maybe Grif could even stumble upon that Felix dude who would definitely remember him.

Then they would bring him to the others and he could tell them the truth. Then… Well, the others could probably take care of the plans then (the other being Tucker and Simmons – they should definitely not let Caboose come up with a plan) but he figured they would somehow escape and get the others at the Fed Base and then, well, they would all be together then. End of that problem.

Except… Well, a lot of things could go wrong. And they usually did.

Grif pretended not to be affected by the fact that he was alone in the wilderness unarmed. He was not sure if Chorus had dangerous wildlife. It probably had.

That was probably something he should have thought about before heading out.

He stumbled over a fallen branch and cursed himself for making noise. It occurred to him they might send out men to get him back. It seemed a bit of an overreaction but since the Feds were the guys who had fucking shot them in order to talk with them it would not surprise Grif if they started a fucking manhunt.

He froze. Would Locus return to the base today? Last thing Grif had heard the mercenary was out on some scouting mission which was fucking great since everyone was less tense when he was not around.

But if Locus returned and if they sent Locus after him…

Oh fucking shit.

Grif looked over his shoulder, wondering if he should just return by his own will. Less trouble that way, probably. Except he would actually be caught when trying to break back in and he would have to explain himself and he doubted he could get away with the excuse that he had just been out to take a piss. Maybe he could if he had to explain himself to Gelman.

Eventually he decided to move on – with a quicker pace. Big, dark cliffs had begun to appear in the landscape, bursting through the snowy ground, and Grif changed direction so he was walking between them so they could provide cover.

He looked down and suddenly realized he had been leaving footprints in the snow. It was not snowing which was something Grif had been thankful for until now. He slammed his hand against his visor in an attempt to face-palm. Now the others could track him. That was probably something he should have thought about before heading out.

And they might bring Locus. Which was always something he should have thought about.

Grif tried not to panic. Okay, so maybe this was a stupid plan. But that was just what happened when he did not have Simmons to talk him out of stupid plans.

He pressed his back against one of the rocks, shielding himself as he tried to figure out what to do next.

He should… probably head for the Rebels, right? It was too late to regret his choices. He just… If he could just find Simmons then the nerd could tell him what to do. He probably had a better plan.

It was also better if Grif just pretended to be a rebel. He had always been a maverick anyway.

The unmistakably crunch of boots pressing against snow cut through Grif's mind like a too well-aimed bullet. He was not moving. He was not causing that sound. Oh shit, oh fucking shit.

But… It could be the Rebels. Which would be good since that was Grif's plan. But he had been walking in less than an hour and Rebels should not be this close to a Fed base. Unless they were scouts. They could be scouts. They probably were scouts.

Grif did not peek over the rock to check.

If his bad luck had followed him it was probably Locus. At the thought, a pain seemed to flare up in his nearly healed shoulder wound. He would rather not be shot again, thank you. Or his ankles broken. Oh god, Locus was going to break his ankles before dragging him back the Fed base.

Grif was not the person to call himself an idiot immediately. Of course he would make some mistakes every once in a while. But this plan had seemed good. It had logic and everything. But now… Grif bit his lower lip and tried to make his breathing as quiet as possible. Maybe the plan was not that good after all. Grif just really did not want his ankles to be broken.

He tried to keep quiet as he panicked, pressing himself against the rock. But, yeah, this was a stupid fucking idea.

It had just seemed better than to just wait around, possibly training Simmons' killer in the meanwhile.

Grif blamed the stupid nightmare for giving him these stupid ideas. Which was kinda Simmons' fault. Technically.

The nerd could just have stayed out of his dreams in the first place.

* * *

A/N: I had to include the word Danish 'cause that's apparently what you guys call pastry. I'm Danish. And we call them "Viennese-bread". I really don't know why you guys brought Denmark into it. It's weird. And it's… You know. I'm not cake. *sobs* I'm not cake. I'm not. I'm just Danish.

Also, just to clear up, I'm not trying to make Wash the bad guy here. He and Grif have very different views on the situation, and since this chapter is from Grif's pov, the fact that he is kinda pissed off by the Freelancer is shown. In the original season 12 Wash does make it clear that both sides have reasons and he does defend the Feds when Tucker calls them evil. Personally I'm rooting for Grif's plan – even though it's so very, very stupid, and why do you get yourself in trouble like that, Grif?!

I was supposed to update "Seeing Red" but I got stuck and there was three days of writer's block (it was horrible. I almost died. I need to write to stay alive.) so I began to work on this. Forgive me. I'll try to update my other stories soon.

Grif is in charge of infiltration and I firmly believe he can be sneaky when he wants to.

I hope you enjoyed this chap! I personally enjoyed spending some time with the guys at the Fed space.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave your thoughts in a comment or come scream at me at my tumblr.


	9. Markers to Redirect

**Shake  
** _Markers to Redirect_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used with object**_ **, to brandish or flourish.]**

* * *

Simmons was 80 percent sure that he had an axe stuck in the middle of his forehead. The missing 20 percent was caused by the lack of death – but, _god_ , his head felt like it was about to split open.

Groaning, he managed to leave his bed.

Then he realized he had not been sleeping in his bed.

He stared at the messy pile of blankets that almost hid the sleeping bag. Tucker's room. This was definitely Tucker's room, judging from the bunch of aqua armor pieces in the corner and the slightly messy state of the room. Donut's room was always neat and smelled of roses.

"Oh god."

Simmons pressed a hand against his forehead, just to be sure there truly weren't any axes involved, as he began to recall the night before. He remembered the part where they had been drinking. The pounding headache reminded him. He faintly remembered being sad and Tucker talking and laughing at some point and –

" _Oh god_."

The cyborg immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, preventing from saying another word. He had already said too much. Last night he had fucking been spilling _everything_ because his stupid drunk brain forgot that Tucker would never let this go. And… Shit, he was still in Tucker's room. Just another reason to keep his mouth shut.

Making a mental note to thank Tucker for letting him stay later, Simmons tried to fold the blankets with his foot, but all he really managed to do was to push it into a smaller but taller pile. Oh well. It would have to do.

He snuck out of the room as quietly as he could. Tucker was snoring softly, one hand hanging limply towards the floor.

Just before Simmons could close the door behind himself, he could not help but overhear the Blue talk in his sleep. It was not that bad, actually. Simmons apparently cried in his sleep so he could not really mock anyone for uttering one word. A name, to be specific. _Wash_.

Simmons slowly became aware of his own pitiful state. He was barely dressed, still in his nightwear, his t-shirt was stained, and, oh fuck, was he even wearing shoes?

He looked down in wonder and realized he was indeed walking barefoot.

He almost had to hold back a laugh – and people were looking up to him as a Captain! Could they not see what a mess he was?

They certainly could now, if anyone stepped into the hallway where he was slowly making his way back to his own room, feet dragging across the floor.

"Oh god," Simmons said again, realizing how many rumors would be born from that sight. If anyone saw him they would… They would…

His tired brain struggled with finishing the thought, and suddenly he was slamming he body against the door, somehow managing to find the handle and pull it, and then he was stumbling into his own room.

The smell caused him to rush to the small sink in the corner of his room and throw up the amount of liquid that had been left in his stomach. Dry-heaving, he glanced at the puddle of now half-dried vomit on the floor that he had left just after the nightmare.

" _Oh god_."

He should have cleaned it up just afterwards. Now it was stiff and… Well, it was fucking gross and it smelled and it was probably going to leave a stain.

Simmons slowly managed to tear his eyes away from the mess on the floor and that was when he noticed it.

"Oh god?"

He stared at it for almost ten seconds before picking up his helmet he had left on the drawer. He adjusted the radio so he was calling Tucker's channel which turned out to be a difficult job when you were not looking. Simmons kept staring at the strange, new object in his room, as if afraid it would disappear if he did not keep it within his vision. Could a hangover cause you to hallucinate?

Tucker's voice was muffled by sleep. "Wha-?"

"There's a cone in my room," Simmons told him calmly, eyes fixated on the orange pylon.

"Simmons? What the fuck, dude?"

"There's a cone in my room," Simmons repeated himself. His tone was a bit more urgent this time.

"Why the fuck are you waking me up for this- Wait, shit, you're not freaking out, right? It's just a cone, dude."

"No, I'm – I'm fine," Simmons said and discovered to his surprise that he was telling the truth. "But I'm very confused." He stepped around the cone and saw that someone had drawn a smiling face on it with a black pen. "What the fuck?"

And beneath the happy mouth, the same person had written a name with big childish letters.

"Uhm, I think Caboose might have been in here."

"What makes you think that?"

Simmons rubbed his nose-bridge. "Someone has written _Griff_ on the cone. With two _F_ 's."

There was a small piece of paper attached as well. It showed an arrow pointing towards the pool of vomit next to the cone. It said: _not my fauld_.

Letting out a sigh, Simmons said, "Yeah, it's definitely Caboose."

"Aw, fuckberries. That means the idiot has been up all night as well. I was counting on him to lead the practice today."

"You wanted Caboose to take the lead?" Simmons asked, dumbfounded, as he scanned his room for anything he could use to clean up the mess.

"Well, unless you're feeling up for it 'cause my head is telling me today is not the day I want to be yelling orders. 'sides, Caboose has been wanting to play dodgeball with them forever."

Simmons grimaced – he had almost forgotten that they were supposed to start the training session in an hour. He doubted he would even have managed to get dress by then. His limbs felt so heavy and his thoughts so slurred and that fucking headache was still pounding and-

Giving up on life for a moment, Simmons let himself fall face-first into his bed.

In the back of his mind, a really mean voice was whispering _"Lazy fatass_ ".

Simmons buried his face in the pillow. Well, while he had lost his own personal headache to the Feds he had most certainly earned himself a new one. Not that it could ever work as a replacement.

This was the last time he would ever be drinking with Tucker.

* * *

"Hello."

Simmons slowly opened his eyes and found himself staring into a golden visor. It belonged to a blue helmet.

"Caboose, what are you doing in my room?" Simmons did not recall falling asleep but he was honestly not surprised that it had happened.

The Blue soldier looked down at him, head tilted. "Tucker wanted you to stop playing dead so he told me to come find you. And I did, even though you were hiding. That was not very kind of you."

"I'm not hiding," Simmons said, sitting up with some effort.

"Yes, you are. You are not red. I almost did not see you."

Blinking, Simmons realized Caboose was talking about his armor. "I wasn't hiding," he muttered before adding, "And it's _maroon_."

"Ah, I like those. Donut gave me one once when I asked for a cookie."

"Not macarons!" Simmons hissed and stumbled towards his dresser so he could change into a new shirt that didn't smell. How had he been reduced to this? It was Grif's fault, of course, in some way. As he began to put on the armor pieces, he could not help but ask, "So… Did you put a cone on my room?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"…Why did you put a cone in my room, Caboose?"

Caboose stopped petting the cone for a moment, tilting his head back to stare at Simmons. "Because you looked sad. Very sad. The lonely kind of sad. And when I missed Church I gave him a new shape. Skateboard-shape. Then he became a ball. But not the bouncy kind of ball, the floating kind."

"That doesn't…" Simmons trailed off. His headache was telling him not to argue logic with Caboose right now, or make the Blue cry by accident, so he said very slowly, "That doesn't work with all people, Caboose. Church was… special?"

"Yes." Caboose nodded. "Very. I could not find a right shape for Washington. I miss him. And Freckles." He let out a sad, small sigh. "He had such a great shape. Very big."

Simmons snorted under his breath.

Caboose continued, "Tucker says we'll get them back. But it's good to have something to talk to when they're not here." He nodded towards the cone. "You're very lucky – there are no blue cones. But this one is orange and it doesn't move much and people like to shoot after it. Yeah," he said and reached out to pat the cone gently again, "it's a good Griff."

"It's pretty quiet," Simmons said as he fastened the armor pieces on his legs. The real Grif would only stop bitching whenever he slept. This Grif would never be good enough.

The cyborg shook his head to clear his thoughts as he realized he was comparing a cone to Grif.

"I miss Washington. And Freckles. And Church." Caboose sighed loudly. "And I know they miss me too. Freckles get very anxious if you forget to walk him."

"Good to know."

Simmons felt his heart ache for the Blue soldier for a moment. Of course the others were suffering too, but it was so easy to forget when your own chest always hurt. Caboose had barely recovered from Church's abandonment.

At least Tucker was here to help him through. Donut would probably have been a supportive friend, but the Blues were the expert when it came to comforting Caboose.

Though, Simmons knew he would have switched Tucker for Grif every day. Sarge too, probably. Or… If they had been split up in Reds and Blues, how would things have worked out? Simmons let his mind wander.

He would have been happier, for sure, with his own team. And they would probably have made an attempt to save the Blues – not like they had not been in that situation before. But he doubted that Sarge's plan would have gotten them that far.

But like Tucker had told him earlier –now was not the time to think in Red and Blue. And to be honest, Simmons was grateful that Tucker was there to take the lead. Not like Simmons would ever get the confidence to do anything like that.

Maybe… Maybe this was just the universe twisted way of teaching them a lesson. Simmons' father had always said that the best lessons hurt and there was absolutely no need to shed a tear. Ever.

So maybe Simmons had grown too dependent on Grif. But that happened when you had been… Well, they had been Grif and Simmons for years now. So this was Simmons' chance to learn how to fend for himself. Apparently. Or maybe the universe just hated his guts.

But it certainly showed them that they were all friends. The ones they were missing were friends and the ones they were stuck with were friends. God, Sarge would have been disappointed if he heard Simmons' thoughts.

But right now it only felt natural to comfort the Blue. "Caboose, we don't need replacements. We're going to get them back." Simmons pulled his head back when he realized his voice was not wavering. Maybe the hangover just made him too tired for a mental breakdown. He frowned as he put on his helmet.

"Yes," Caboose said very seriously. Then: "Can I please borrow Griff? Tucker says the others need the cone – he also says we're not getting ice-cream. He's not in a good mood today."

"Wha- No." Unconsciously, Simmons took in step in front of the cone. "I mean, you gave this one to me. There are other cones. It's a waste of time to carry this one all the way back to-"

"Am I just hearing you defend Griff the Cone?" Tucker's voice asked through his radio channel, now when Simmons finally put on the last piece of armor. It must still be turned on to Tucker's channel since the time he called him. "It's a bit worrying how quickly you emotionally attached yourself to a plastic pylon, but whatever helps you sleep at night, dude. Seriously – 'cause we are not doing this drink and comfort thing again. My head is killing me."

Well, Simmons could relate. "I told you it was a bad idea."

"You're the one who passed the fuck out in the middle of a conversation." Tucker actually sounded offended. "Had to send Caboose to check if you were still alive. You're late, by the way. And me head's too sore to do shit, so we're just waiting."

"Where's Donut?"

"How the fuck should I know? I'm Caboose's handler, you're- Wait, actually Donut is _your_ handler, not the other way. I guess that doesn't make you obligated to keep track of him but-"

Simmons blinked. "Wait, what the fuck? Why is Donut my handler – I don't need a handler!"

"Dude, you were crying in the shower for almost an hour the other day. Pretty sure you need a handler."

"Fuck you."

"Just get your asses up here. Not feeling like taking on Felix alone today."

Simmons turned around to walk out of the room, and that was when he noticed the messy trail of bootprints leading out of the doorway. He sighed loudly, causing Tucker to ask: "What?"

"Caboose stepped in my vomit."

"Gross, dude."

* * *

"So?" Tucker asked as Simmons sat down heavily on the crate next to him.

The cyborg slumped forward, elbows resting against his knees, revealing just how tired he felt. Definitely too tired to keep up with Tucker's vague attempts to start a conversation. "So?"

"Well, it's your line but here we go: do you wanna talk about it?"

Simmons narrowed his eyes behind the visor. He had really hoped that Tucker had been too drunk to remember that one detail. Simmons had been drunk enough to let it slip. "Talk about what?"

"Oh come _on_!" Leaning closer, Tucker lowered his voice so that the Lieutenants would not hear them. Not that it really mattered: they seemed to have fallen asleep anyway. "I'm talking about you making out with Grif. Fucking finally."

"We weren't-We-" Simmons sputtered. Even his helmet could not hide his blush. "It wasn't like _that_."

"Well, what was it like then?"

Simmons hunched his shoulders closer together. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, making his voice bitter enough to keep Tucker from asking further into it. Thankfully, the Blue stayed quiet at that, looking at Caboose who was trying to gather an armful of balls in the distance. Until Donut appeared, they had decided to let Caboose have his fun. No one seemed to have a problem with it so far, mainly because he kept losing his grip on the balls and therefor postponing the actual start of the training session.

To be completely honest, Simmons preferred not to talk about that one night because there was not really much to talk about. Well, of course there was _something_ but Tucker already knew the important parts: a kiss and drunkness.

Simmons could not really add any more details. That would require him being able to read Grif's mind and… Well, had he been able to do that he would have found out if…

But there was not really much to find out. It was an accident, really. It had been one of the bad nights, and Grif had found the smashed mirror, and suddenly he had just made a bottle of whiskey appear from under the bed.

Simmons had managed to forget the nightmare rather quickly and it had turned into their normal banter, perhaps a bit more slurred and witty than usual. They had been sitting on the floor – Simmons faintly remembered falling out of the bed and Grif breaking out in warm laughter at the sight.

And then, suddenly, Grif had pressed his lips against Simmons'. The kiss had been light and brief and sweet, as if Grif's favorite cookies had just left a permanent taste on his mouth. Then Grif had pulled back, complaining about Sarge's newest strategy to attack Blue Base. He had acted like nothing had happened.

Maybe nothing had happened. Maybe Simmons' mind had just switched off for a moment. He had been too afraid to ask if that had been the case, so instead he had gone along with Grif's casualness.

But later, after reflecting upon the evening, he had come to the conclusion that maybe that was just the way Grif was. Casual about it. No drama, no big show. Being married to the fatass would probably be just as chill - One day they would just wake up with an extra piece of jewelry on their hand. The only formal thing would be the wedding cake, but only because Grif would always use the chance to buy a wedding cake, whether it was a real wedding or not.

Simmons shook his head to stop thinking about marrying Grif. That was a foolish, stupid thought.

That was why you should not bring up the kiss-accident. It gave you a headache. Simmons preferred to believe that he and Grif were… Well, they were Simmons and Grif. That was a pretty unspecific term but it seemed to fit. If Simmons decided to delve into it, he would just ruin it. It was easy to ruin things these days.

"I'll just ask Grif when we find them," Tucker said, pulling Simmons out of his thoughts.

The cyborg would have replied, had it not been for Donut yelling across the room, "Sorry, guys!" The pink soldier darted across the room with an incredible speed, waving at the group of Lieutenants who seemed to have nodded off by now. At least Palomo's head was on Jensen's shoulder, and she did not shrug him off. Smith also seemed to forget to salute. It was hard to tell with Bitters who usually ignored his surroundings to the point where he might as well have been asleep.

"Sorry," Donut said again as he came to a halt in front of Tucker and Simmons. "I had a rough night and, well, I first got up at 6 and then-"

Simmons took once quick glance at the clock in the left side of his vision. "But that's almost two hours ago? How the fuck could you be late."

Donut tsk-ed at him. "I need my mirror time, Simmons. It's not easy to look like this, you know."

"We're all wearing helmets! It doesn't even matter!"

"Shit, stop yelling!" Tucker whined, keeping a hand on both sides of his helmet, as if grasping his head in pain.

Donut put a hand on his hip as he watched the two soldiers in front of him, noting how their were both slumped over, the tired edge to their tones. "What were you two doing together last night? No, don't tell me; I know. And while I do prefer my own wine-tasting if we should break the rules to get alcohol, I can't say I'm not proud of you doing a heart-to-heart. I probably should not complain. After all, I-" He let out a big yawn. "Excuse my bad manners, but I could not keep it in. I didn't exactly keep the curfew either."

"You've got to be kidding me," Tucker said flatly as he realized his plan to let Donut coordinate today's training died. "Why the fuck were you up?"

"Well, you know how they say that if your head feels like it's about to burst, you should give it some fresh air? I did that, and it did chase some of the most worried thoughts away. Then I ran into Bitters and we had a very nice intimate moment." He nodded towards the pink Lieutenant. "I feel like we worked out some frustrations, didn't we, Bitters?"

At the sound of his name, he raised his head. "Wha- I guess. Sure. Whatever." He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, only to be stopped by his visor.

As Bitters let out another yawn, Tucker let out a frustrated groan. "Did _anyone_ get a good night's sleep?"

The Lieutenants stayed quiet which was never a good sign.

Tucker covered his visor with his hands. "For fuck's sake." In the other end of the hall, Simmons spotted Caboose sitting on the floor, ball in his lap, his back resting against the wall, clearly asleep. The cyborg was not sure whether to laugh or cry at this point.

Smith seemed to have awakened: he coughed awkwardly and tried with an excuse, "To our defense, sirs, we did break curfew in order to have more hours to review our previous strategies. We thought it would be rewarding."

"Well, what did you find out?" Tucker demanded with a slight snort.

"We suck," Bitters said firmly and no one really tried to argue against it.

Except Donut.

He clasped his hands together and said, "There's nothing wrong with sucking. Just don't do it for too long. We all have to switch positions at some point because everyone deserves their time on the top of the world. And you might get that feeling today. The opportunity is right there – you just need to reach out and grab it. Then pull it close to you. So let's face today with a smile and I believe you will all succeed in this round of…" He trailed off before looking at Tucker and Simmons for help. "Uhm, I can't actually remember what we have planned for today."

Nothing. They had nothing planned for today.

Simmons closed his eyes, biting his lip. Too bad the Rebels had a limited supply of medical treatments, otherwise he would have liked to swallow some painkillers. The headache was still like a thunderstorm inside his skull but at least that pain distracted him from the painful knot that had been stuck somewhere inside his chest since the accident.

Bitters had nailed the point – they fucking sucked. Who were they even tried to kid now? They had all realized the Lieutenants would not become better in the two days they had left. At least Tucker and Simmons had realized that. Maybe Caboose was too stupid to see it and maybe Donut was too hopeful. But it was obvious, painfully obvious.

Simmons felt like slamming his forehead against his knees had he not known the sudden movement would probably cause him to vomit again.

The Lieutenants were not going to be better. They were awful Captains. Kimball would not let them pass. They would not be allowed to attempt to rescue their friends.

And then… They would have to wait. It could take weeks before they had an opportunity like this again, if they would even be granted a second chance. That meant more time that the others had to endure captivity (and what that might involve – Simmons preferred not to think about those details right now). That meant a smaller chance of them being…

Simmons knew he had failed even without his father there to say it out loud.

The headache exploded as the frustration crept up on him. This sucked. They sucked. The situation sucked. Chorus sucked. Life sucked.

And if there was a God watching everything, then he liked to make Simmons' life hell. Or at least Grif's life hell. As bad as Simmons felt, Grif might be in an even worse state, and that was not a comforting thought.

"Is there any exercise you want us to begin, Captains?" Smith asked gingerly in an attempt to make up for their lack of action so far. Behind him Palomo groaned, causing Jensen to wake up and gently push him off her shoulder.

Simmons looked at Tucker who seemed to be lost in thought.

Fuck, he was too tired to deal with this right now. "Go run some laps," he said with shrug.

"How many?" Palomo asked tiredly, shaking his right leg in order to get some feeling back in the limb.

Simmons had been staring at his hands, slowly slipping into despair when the Lieutenants kept requiring his attention. "Until I tell you to stop!" Simmons snapped, not even looking up.

Their quick footsteps told him that they were following his orders – at least most of them. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bitters still resting on the crate. " _Now_ , Bitters!"

The Pink Lieutenant stared at him for a moment where they both refused to look away. The he pushed himself off the crate with a sigh and began to jog.

Simmons blinked in confusion when he heard an impressed whistle. " _Dude_." Even Donut had turned his attention on him, head tilted in astonishment.

The cyborg tried not to blush under their glances. "Wha- what?"

"You just gave _three_ orders without stuttering or swallowing your tongue. That's a new record."

Donut nodded in excitement. "And you should never underestimate the oral skills! You sounded like a real captain, Simmons!"

"I, uh- Thanks."

"First time I've seen a hangover do good shit for once." Tucker groaned as he stood up, stretching out his back before facing his fellow Captains. "Well, it looks like you got this covered."

"Wait, where the fuck are you going?" Simmons exclaimed. He almost rose to follow him but his body still felt incredibly heavy. Just because he had managed to sound like a superior this once time it did not mean that Tucker could just ditch them.

"I'm going to talk with Felix," Tucker revealed. The answer left Simmons so surprised that when he finally managed to open his mouth to hear more about this, Tucker had already left the hall.

Donut was too quiet, chin resting against his chest plate, and Simmons realized his fellow Red had fallen asleep. Oh well.

Simmons felt tempted to follow his example but watching the exhausted Lieutenants run around in circles was actually quite amusing.

Well, at least it became amusing when Caboose woke up, believed they had a game of dodgeball going on, and proceeded to throw his ball at Bitters' head. Just slightly amusing.

Simmons felt bad about it for a second – and then the headache blocked out the pity.

* * *

Later Tucker would reveal his plan for what to do now.

Simmons was the first to agree to ditch the Lieutenants. Donut agreed as well, to Simmons' surprise. But apparently the Pink Captain's worry for the young soldiers was bigger than his belief in them.

And even Simmons had to admit that it would not feel great to see the Lieutenants get slaughtered. They may be useless for the operation but they deserved better than this. Jensen had believed in him from the beginning, and while she may be wrong, the thought still counted.

Simmons really hoped she would survive the war.

The sudden realization that they were finally going to _do something_ , that they were going to leave and finally make a fucking attempt – it made the headache fade away and instead filled his body with this weird kind of buzzing. Maybe some of his cyborg parts were acting out again but he liked the blame the excitement or adrenaline or anxiety or whatever this feeling should be called.

Simmons felt awake and ready and slightly nauseous but this was the moment they had been waiting for.

Donut seemed to share his joy. Placing a hand on the cyborg's shoulder, he chirped, "We're going to get your man back, Simmons!"

Simmons felt his cheeks burn. "And Sarge and Lopez too," he muttered. "And Wash."

"Of course!" Donut exclaimed with confidence. "The others must be excited to see us again."

 _Excited_ was a strange choice of words. _Desperate_ would probably fit better after weeks of captivity. But sure, maybe they would be excited as well.

The Reds had just restocked their ammo for the mission, grabbing their preferred weapons before heading down to the garage to meet with the Blues.

Caboose and Tucker had already placed themselves in one of the jeeps when they got there.

"I hope they won't be too sad," Donut suddenly said and it took some seconds before Simmons realized he was talking about the Lieutenants. "I don't think Bitters will take it well."

To be honest, Simmons did not really think Bitters would give a shit whether they stayed or not. "I'm sure he'll come to appreciate your choice," he then decided to say. Donut was still not too happy about the way Simmons had scolded the Lieutenant the day before.

He stopped abruptly when they came in front of the jeep they were going to steal – ahem, _borrow_ , of course.

Now would be the time Grif would swing into the driver's seat like he always did.

Except he could not do it now.

Donut nudged his arm. "Are you not going to say it?"

The thought of placing himself in Grif's spot felt sickening wrong, but the prospect of finally leaving for the rescue mission made up for it.

Simmons exhaled before saying, "Shotgun."

And for once he was the first one to say it.

* * *

A/N: This chapter may be heavily inspired by the man who went viral on the Danish medias after he shared the story (and picture) of how he woke up after a wild night partying and discovered a giant traffic cone in the middle of his bathroom. He had no memories of how it ended up there.

I love season 4 Simmons where he snaps and go into Blue Asshole mode. I brought a little of that back.

Stuff is about to happen and I'm looking forward to pushing the two teams closer to each other. What will happen after that, we'll have to wait and see.

Thank you so much for reading! If you have any thoughts about the chapter or story in general, feel free to share them in a comment or come shout at me in my tumblr. I hope you all have a nice day!


	10. Hey, Stranger

**Shake  
** _Hey, Stranger_

 **[Shake:** _ **noun**_ **, the act or a manner of clasping another's hand in greeting, agreement:]**

* * *

It was almost tragic how many times in Grif's life he had believed he had been about to die. A tank heading directly towards him – he had managed to send Kai a last thought, hoping she would not be too angry when she found out, before it had all been just pain and darkness. Firing squad had been pretty intimidating, even though they had all been asswipes. Falling off a cliff had definitely nearly given him a heart-attack.

But a heavy set of grey boots being planted in front of his hiding spot?

Grif knew he was _absolutely fucked_.

He stayed in his crouched position, as if hoping his vulnerable stance would grant him some mercy.

About two seconds later, he lost what little control he had been trying to keep a hold on. Grif whimpered, holding up his hands to shield his face. "Please don't break my ankles! 'cause then you'd just have to drag me back and I'm not exactly light… Not that I'm questioning your strength or anything; I'm-"

" _Grif_."

His name was followed by that sort of exhausted sigh that could only belong to one person.

Grif dared to look up slightly. "Wash?"

The Freelancer had a hand on his visor. "Do you realize how lucky you are?"

"…does that mean you're not going to break my ankles?" Grif dared to ask. He put a hand on the rock for support, slowly getting up from the ground. His knees hurt from the strained position.

"I…" Wash trailed off, seemingly frowning. "Do you really think that is something I would actually do?" he then asked, sounding pretty bothered by the fact that the answer could be _yes_.

"You're a Freelancer," Grif pointed out dryly. "Submitting to your anger-issues is a part of your job-description. If it helps, I did think you were Locus. Intimidating shadow and all that."

Wash was glaring at him. "I could have been Locus. And had that been the case, you may have been cradling your ankles now."

Grif gulped once. "Huh. I guess I can call myself lucky then. Let's see if it continues. If we move now, we might get enough distance to-"

"Grif," Wash replied in the same tone the Drill Sergeant had been talking to him back in Basic. "We're going back."

Holding up his hands, he said, "Okay. Alright. Just… One good reason not to try to find the Rebels."

" _Grif_ -"

"One," he said again, letting his arms fall before crossing them in defiance.

"Because," Wash began, his stern voice matching Grif's, "Locus is supposed to return tonight. And if they realize we are missing, he will be sent out to locate us and-"

"Break our ankles," Grif finished for him with a shudder.

Wash exhaled loudly. "At least you get the general idea."

"C'mon." Grif waved him off. With all that talk about Locus his eyes could not help but flicker towards the direction he had fled from. "Aren't you the Blues' super Freelancer? Don't tell me you're scared of him."

"I'm not scared!" Wash immediately huffed in annoyed tone.

"Dude, don't feel bad about it. I'm freaking terrified of him."

Wash had one hand raised, and it looked like he was about to place his other on his hip, had he not been gripping his rifle so tightly. "What I am saying is that facing Locus head-on might not be the best idea."

"Yeah, well, we don't usually go for the best idea. We don't even go for the good ones. We go for mediocre or just whatever shit we can come up with," Grif explained with a shrug. "And you can't really tell me a reason not to try to find the others."

"Besides Locus being sent after you? You did leave behind the rest of us."

Grif shifted his weight on his feet. Okay, so fair point. But it was not like he was going to forget them. He knew he was an asshole but not that big an asshole. "Look, I'd tell them where you guys were and then we could-"

"And did it occur to you that after your disappearance they could increase security? Or relocate us? _Again_?"

Wash kept staring at him the entire time Grif searched for a good answer. While he thought, the only thing that could be heard was the leaves rustling in the wind. "Okay, okay. You're right. Just… Look, I don't make plans. Simmons does. I'm just the guy who makes sure we don't spend the rest of the day coming up with all the horrible ways the plan could go wrong."

"I understand that, really." Wash took a step closer. "And I wish your plan could work. But we need to go back."

"What? Before Locus shows up and breaks our ankles?"

"That is oddly specific but yes. If we return before they notice we were gone, you won't have to explain yourself." Wash had already begun to walk away, expecting Grif to follow. He did not even look over his shoulder to check.

Well, not like Grif had anything else to do. He briefly considered running off into the darkness alone but Wash had made some pretty good points. As much as Grif would like to find the other half of the team, screwing the remaining half over did not sound like a great idea.

He stumbled after Wash, noting that little judgment in his voice. " _I_ won't have to- Hey, _we_. It should be _we_. We're both out here."

"Yes, but I was being responsible by tracking you down." Wash fastened up his walk when his HUD informed him of how close they were to morning. " _I_ had plenty of reasons to explain myself with."

"Well, I could lie and say you were the one who… _Fine_. Okay, sorry for dragging you along into this. How did you even find out-"

"Did you really expect me to sleep through your noise?" Wash asked with a small huff in the end.

Grif scowled behind his visor. "Seriously. You need to sleep. This is unnatural and you're offending my lifestyle by denying the sweet embrace of sleep. Breaking my heart every time," he said while faking a sad voice.

Wash let out a slightly amused sound which at least meant he was not pissed. "Your plan… It wasn't _bad_ , Grif. Well, the execution and the overall lack of awareness of its consequences were not… flawless. But the intentions were good."

"Intentions mean shit," Grif replied firmly 'cause he had learned that much in his life already.

"Look," Wash said. "When we go, we're all going together. Okay?"

It was not the promise Grif had been looking for but it was better than nothing so when Wash turned his helmet to look at him, he nodded.

* * *

Grif was punished. Not by broken ankles. But not even two hours after they had snuck their way back to their room, Wash woke Grif up by shaking his shoulder.

Groaning, he rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. "Five more minutes."

"Grif."

Well, not his hopes had been up anyway. Simmons had never granted him extra sleep either and Wash would not be more merciful.

Time to use the desperate trick then. Grif tried to cough as loudly as he could with his face against the pillow. "Seems like I-" He coughed again; it could never hurt to be a bit dramatic. "-I caught something in the cold. Oh well. Better take a sick day."

"Oh," Wash said. Grif barely had the time to grow suspicious about his own victory before the Freelancer continued, "I'll fetch Doctor Grey then."

"Fuck no!" Grif stumbled out of his bed, putting on his armor as quickly as possible.

Wash was wearing a bit too amused expression as he waited for him to get finished. "Afraid of needles?"

"I keep telling you, that crazy woman wants my organs!" Grif did not put on his helmet but held it in his hand – they were heading down to eat so there was no real use for it. "And I bet Sarge is more than willing to give them to her!"

Grif kept his shoulders hunched as he entered the mess hall. Even though he knew his midnight trip had been a secret he could not help but feel people were staring at him. But there was no way they could know. Right?

Wash seemed calm so that was something to comfort himself with. Besides, people were allways staring at them. With them being their new saviors and shit…

One of the soldiers had his helmet off, spoonful of oatmeal being lifted towards his mouth, when he noticed Grif. His mouth widened into a grin when he gained eye-contact, even giving him a friendly nod.

It took some seconds before Grif remembered. Melman… No, Gelman. The cigarette dude from yesterday.

The young soldier was still smiling at him, apparently very happy to see that Grif had kept his promise. Well, it would have been rather awful to be the one causing their "savior" to escape. Especially with Locus keeping everything in check.

Grif did not really do the whole smiling-at-strangers-thing so he answered it with a short nod. Seemed to be enough. Gelman's face turned even brighter and then he turned his head to share some words with a teammate.

Filling his food tray with as much breakfast as they allowed, Grif followed Wash to the table where their group would usually eat. Not like "usually" counted for much – they were being relocated too often to get used to any of the places.

Sarge and Lopez were already seated. The robot had no tray in front of him, of course, and did not even look up when the newcomers dropped down in front of him.

Grif grumbled something that could be understood as a morning greeting and Sarge mumbled something in return. Then Grif returned his focus on the important stuff – his breakfast – but after only one spoonful he noticed from the corner of his eye how the Freelancer was still staring at him.

Wash cleared his throat. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"…if you're about to suggest prayer before meal I'm gonna-" Grif trailed off when Wash silently slid a bottle of pills across the table. "Oh." He propped it open with his thumb, the one that had once belonged to Simmons, and swallowed a pill dry. "Thanks," he muttered and went back to stare at his breakfast instead.

"Dagnabbit," Sarge grumbled from his side of the table. "I was hoping the dirtbag would finally succumb to his own uselessness. Of course a Blue would crush my hopes and dreams. Miss Doctor is still looking forward to your autopsy and, damnit Grif, you do not disappoint a lady!"

"Can't you find some other wedding gift?"

Sarge growled, "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Grif sighed, picking up his spoon. Before he could enjoy the taste of oh-so-bland oatmeal, his stomach dropped when he noticed Locus in the corner of the hall. Wash seemed to have noticed too, as Grif felt the Freelancer tense up next to him.

The mercenary glared at them in a way that made Grif want to cradle his ankles. Fucking shit, he knew. Didn't he?

But then Locus turned around, marching out of the mess hall without saying a word. Judging by how well-armed he appeared, he was about to head out again. Not surprising. The mercenary seemed to appear and disappear on missions all the time without people actually knowing what he was up too. Hopefully Doyle knew.

So Locus was away again, Doyle was still in that capital, and Grif and the others were stuck in this shithole.

And who knew where Simmons and the rest of the guys were? Far away from here – that was the only thing Grif knew.

* * *

"No, that definitely counts as losing them. You're just lucky you are too damn terrifying to piss off."

As Locus replied, Felix looked around one extra time to make sure no one was around. Wouldn't really want anyone to be listening in on this conversation.

Finally the other mercenary stopped talking, allowing Felix to let out an offended huff and retort with a hiss, " _I'm_ not the one who lost track of them. _I_ am doing my job." He chuckled darkly to himself. Drawing his knife with his free hand, he played with it to keep himself busy. "It's pretty funny actually. I mean, I had expected Wash to be trouble but the fatass… Don't tell me he outran you. You sure he wasn't just trying to get to a secret snack stash? Seems more likely."

Through the helmet he heard Locus' answer, and it was enough to make him pace back and forth in irritation. Felix hissed back, "We both know I'm the one stuck with the shitty part of this job. You should see these idiots actually believing-"

He was cut off which only added to his frustration. It seemed to take forever before Locus fell silent on the other end, but when he did Felix had his reply ready.

"Well, instead of making them want to run away you should be encouraging them to fight. Just because I'm the only one who knows how to stick to the…" Felix trailed off as he turned his head. In the distance he saw that green Lieutenant almost dragging Kimball along. Their fastened pace indicated something was wrong.

When was the last time he had seen the Captains again? This morning had been strangely quiet with a lack of idiotic bickering.

Right.

"…plan." Felix finally finished his sentence and let out a strained sigh. "I have to go."

Well, if Felix' speculations turned out to be true, he would have to call back Locus soon anyway.

* * *

"Sarge, for the last time, we are _not_ using live targets during training," Wash had to say with a strained voice. They were walking down the hallway to prepare for another practice course.

"Not even when Grif has volunteered?" the Sergeant tried again, glancing at the orange soldier as he spoke.

Grif would have answered – the insult was already on the tip of his tongue – but then the alarm began. Loud and ominous, light began to flash red on the top of the ceiling.

"I didn't push anything," Grif said quickly for this was about the time either Simmons or Sarge would accuse him of fucking up. Then he realized just what he had said – because he was actually not at fault here – and he felt his stomach drop. "Holy crap, is that the bomb alarm?"

They had never experienced a Rebel attack before but they all knew it had happened in the past. Even different outposts had been attacked while Grif and the others had been with the Feds. One of the reasons why they were moved around; for their own safety.

"Or maybe someone won the lottery!" Sarge suggested. They had all frozen in their steps, sensing the growing panic around the building. Wash reloaded his gun.

"¿Que loteria?" [What lottery?] Lopez asked, drawing his weapon as well.

"And I didn't even get a ticket! I knew I had forgotten something!"

" _Alert. Catastrophic breach detected in sewage pipeline. Sector 3_ ," they were told by the speakers installed in the corner of every hallway.

Grif visibly relaxed. "Phew. Not our problem."

" _Warning. Sewage breach detected in the barracks."_

And then every soldier in the base seemed to come alive. One almost plowed Grif to the ground as he ran past him and he barely took the time to apologize before he left the room in a hurry.

The Reds and Wash remained where they were standing, sharing a glance. "I have a bad feeling about this," the Freelancer revealed as they stared at the exit the soldiers had disappeared through.

Grif huffed. "What? The thought of our beds slowly being drowned in shit? Yeah, not pleasant."

Wash began to move forward. "Let's go." And the others followed.

As they rushed down the hallway, Grif briefly wondered where they were going, what they were doing. Were they going to force their way through shit? Or did Wash' Freelancer senses warn him of some incoming attack? The Feds trying to drown them in shit?

Or maybe… Well, this was the perfect opportunity to slip away. An increasing amount of shit served as a good distraction. No one would notice if they just took the back exit…

The door slid open and Simmons was on the other side of it.

* * *

Simmons was awfully quiet during the whole explanation-sharing. His body was tensed up as their stories were revealed. He might have been looking at Grif but it was hard to tell with the helmet.

Grif, on the other hand, deflated in relief as they slowly came to the conclusion that everyone on this planet was confused. So what? Since when had their lives been simple? They should have seen this coming; their lives were basically tainted by weird shit. Of course things were never as simple as they looked like.

But Simmons was okay. Donut and Tucker and Caboose too; somehow they had all managed not to get killed. They were alive and breathing and apparently Captains.

…So Simmons finally got that promotion. Huh.

When Simmons finally spoke, he was not speaking to Grif. He was just saying his thoughts out loud, talking about how something wasn't right.

Which was bullshit, of course. This was the first right thing since… Well, things had not been right in a long time.

"Wait, do you hear that?" Simmons asked, turning his head rapidly.

Grif did not answer him. He did not want their first conversation to be about stuff they could not hear. Like, Donut had already shed a couple of tears at this point, exclaiming how much he had missed his Red teammates.

And Simmons was talking about his own paranoia.

"Uhh... No." Tucker looked from Grif back to Simmons and then towards Wash. No one seemed able to identify what the fuck Simmons was talking about.

Donut took a step closer to the maroon soldier, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You okay, Simmons?"

"What happened to the alarms?"

Oh. _Oh_. Grif had gotten so used to a constant headache already he should have noticed the lack of a brain-melting alarm.

Silence was usually good. Silence meant a good opportunity to nap. But this…

Grif blinked.

Memories began to force their way through the back of his mind. Memories of a dead-quiet outpost where no one answered his shouting, when no one laughed as Grif walked around like a lost fool, and all the bodies and all the blood on the floor, so much that he had left bloody boot-prints as he wandered down one hallway after another, finding too many bodies to count, but someone had to be alive, just _someone_ , 'cause there was no fucking way he could've…

Grif's hands were most definitely not shaking. He looked down at them just to be sure. Well, at least it wasn't that visible, and the others were more focused on figuring on what the fuck was going on right now.

He was faintly aware of them asking questions and yelling, and he reminded himself that at least it was not exactly like last time.

Suddenly Sarge grabbed his elbow and dragged him along, pulling him into the jeep and Grif reacted by instinct. The vehicle came to a halt, and both he and Sarge sprung out from it, weapons raised.

They had been warned about this. Rebel attacks from out of nowhere. Massive losses when they got the upper hand.

"Grif, establish a perimeter!" Sarge barked, shotgun raised and the finger on the trigger was ready to pull at any moment.

" _How_?!" Grif asked, keeping a tight grip on his own rifle. "Want me to draw a fucking circle in the snow?"

"Usted se avergüenza a si mismo." [You embarass yourself.]

The Fed that ran up to Sarge should count himself really lucky. It was a wonder that none of them had accidently shot him out of pure tension. But it was nice to see someone alive, even if it was another oh-god-do-you-expect-me-to-know-your-name-Fed.

Grif felt movement behind him, and he turned his head just enough to see Simmons and the others skid to a halt a few meters away. The maroon soldier was still quiet and tense, weapon ready as well.

And then Grif returned his focus to the scene in front of him, just in time to see the Fed being disintegrated.

Well, shit.

This was the first person Grif had ever seen disintegrated before. He could not quite decide whether the death looked painful or not. At least it was somewhat quick. But definitely not pleasant.

"Umm... Did everyone else see that?"

Grif smacked his lips before answering Tucker's question, "You mean a man disintegrate right in front of us?"

"Yep."

Simmons visibly shuddered and whined, "Really wish I hadn't."

Then the screaming began. Shots echoing around the base. It was almost ironic; when this place finally came alive it was in the worst way possible. Grif was not quite sure what else he had expected.

They could see the carnage happening in the distance. Falling bodes and red spreading near one of the barracks. And for some stupid reason Grif was stupid enough to recognize Gelman's blond hair before the young soldier found the time to tug on his helmet. The Fed was launching himself at the enemy who had just killed his teammate. The attack was rushed and unprepared, and Gelman did not even come close before the shot hit him in the middle of the chest.

Now Grif really hoped death by disintegration was not that painful.

The sight had been enough to stun Grif, or at least to keep him distracted enough to forget his own situation. Then a hand clasped around his wrist, grip tight enough to make it hurt, and then he was pulled backwards with enough force to make him wonder if he could ever get his shoulder back in place again.

"Are you that fucking stupid?" Simmons hissed with that extra edge to his voice that revealed he was seriously _pissed_. Like the time Grif had accidently scratched his cyborg arm while borrowing it (okay, maybe he should have asked first). "We have to move!"

Not like Grif had a choice about that matter. Simmons was dragging him backwards, using his cyborg hand which meant Grif had no chance of breaking free from his grasp.

Not that he was going to complain about that: their jeep exploded behind them, and suddenly Grif was glad he had been dragged away.

Along with the others, he stumbled into a clearing, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. Simmons suddenly let go of his wrist, as if he had burned himself, and jumped away from the orange soldier.

"What are we dealing with?" Wash asked, and Grif really wanted to know the same thing. This was all panic and confusion – and it was all a bit above their normal level of panic and confusion.

"We don't know!" Donut squealed.

"Well, it ain't the rebels, that's for sure." Sarge was not wrong, as much as Grif hated to agree with the Sergeant. But if they had come to the conclusion that Chorus had not true 'bad guys', then…

"Then who the hell is it?"

Tucker had barely asked the question out loud before that red laser beams appeared on his body. Grif turned his head to see it and suddenly felt a mix of hatred and fear against the color red.

He had barely even lowered his rifle before a red dot landed on the middle of his chest. Oh fucking shit. Grif gulped loudly but with his weapon already lowered there wasn't really a lot he could do.

Turning his head slightly, he saw Simmons stare back at him. The maroon soldier was free from any laser beams, but seeing his friends' situation he froze completely for a second before lowering his weapon as well.

Simmons kept glancing at him until Locus made his dramatic entrance and they all turned their focus upon the mercenary.

As Locus spoke Grif slowly came to the realization that, well shit, this was how they were going to die. The crazy mercenary was not going to break his ankles; he and his team of assholes were going to shoot them dead, without giving them any chance to fight back.

Death by Mercenary. Not really the way Grif had expected to go, actually. Of course they were bound to die in some stupid shit at some point but he had really hoped it would be later. As in, much later. Years later.

This timing was just bad. They had finally found the others, with literally no work being required from Grif, and the only thing Simmons had done was to bitch at him and… Well, maybe Grif should not have expected anything else.

Then Felix showed up. Grif had almost forgotten the snarky mercenary; of course there had been that slight gratitude that he had managed to get half of the team out of the crash site. Not as much as promised but it was something.

And then Felix turned out to be an asshole. A bigger asshole, if anything.

Grif wanted to be surprised, really, but he was just so… _tired_. Of course things turned out to be even shittier than expected.

Donut sounded absolutely devastated as the truth was revealed. "But…" he said and by the sound of his wavering voice Grif knew the pink soldier's lower lip had to be wobbling as this point.

Simmons' stiff stance did not reveal his emotions but Grif could imagine how pale the nerd had to be behind the visor. Paler than usually, at least.

Grif was not sure how to feel about it all. They were about to die anyway, so did his feelings even matter at this point?

When Felix finally stopped his monologue (and, god, did this guy love his own voice) it was not followed by their doom.

Instead, it was followed by their unexpected savior.

A grenade exploded, some mercenary did a cool flip, Locus yelled in anger, overall things just got crazy, and suddenly a weapon landed just in front of Grif.

It was about then he felt like sharing his thought on the situation. "WHAT IS GOING ON?!"

"Just grab it and shoot!" Wash yelled back at him, and Grif did not feel like disobeying that order.

In fact, the order was the only thing he focused on until that not-an-asshole-mercenary landed with a pained grunt in front of them.

"Stay close!"

Grif did not even have the chance to debate whether that was one of the orders he was going to follow before she slammed the future cub into the ground.

 _Ow_.

When his vision finally began to clear again, Grif let out a pained grunt. "What just happened, and why did it hurt?"

Things were a bit fuzzy from there. Apparently Carolina and Church had decided to show up again, and maybe Tucker was not as happy about that as he should be, but Grif could not really focus on that.

After being teleported he had landed on top of Simmons and now the cyborg was busy shoving him off, trying to get their limbs untangled as quickly as possible.

Grif reluctantly helped him, and some seconds later they were both standing, facing each other.

"Sup?" Grif asked, hand halfway raised in a lazy gesture.

Simmons seemed to be frozen. Maybe he was crying. That was very possible. The cyborg had always been grateful for his helmets in the moments that required strong emotions.

He did not say anything. Did not sob loudly either. Not even that strangled sound he would make before having a panic attack.

Simmons was oddly quiet, even when he lashed out and punched Grif in the face.

* * *

A/N: I had to rewatch these scenes over and over again, in order to get them right, and I noticed this sweet detail: Lopez and Simmons are never hit by a rifle beam. They lower their weapon because their friends are threatened. Just felt like pointing that out.

The reunion chapter finally arrived! Of course there will be more Grif and Simmons interaction in the next chapter, as well as Simmons' side of it all.

I have worked some more on the outline of this story and if my plan goes as expected, there should be five more chapters of this story left. The number might chance, however, should the scenes turn out longer or shorter than expected.

I hope you will stick around to see the end 3

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts on the chapter!


	11. That Warm Feeling

**Shake  
** _That Warm Feeling_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used with object,**_ **to agitate or disturb profoundly in feeling:]**

* * *

Bitters slammed the door behind him.

It was not something that unusual for him to do; most days would end with either Palomo getting on his nerves, or some of the assholes who were his fellow Rebels would comment on his armor color and it would end up in a fist fight.

The results were the same; most days would end with a pissed off Bitters marching into his room, slamming the door behind him, and letting himself fall directly into his bed.

Not that Bitters was the type of person to bury his head in the pillow and wail for hours.

That type of person was Matthews.

Bitters would lie on his back, stare at the ceiling, and wonder why the fuck the world was so unfair. Sometimes he would crush some kind of paper in his hands, most often the paper that had been around a snack bar, and he would throw the ball at the ceiling and it would bounce back at him. Sometimes he would catch it was ease, continuing the meaningless attempt to pass time, and sometimes it would hit him in the face, and Bitters would once more wonder why the world was so unfair.

It was all those small questions: why did his home turn into a war zone? Why had Kimball forbidden alcohol? Why did they have a limited supply of snacks? Why did none of their Generals live long enough to actually change something? Why did Bitters get stuck in pink armor? Why did his Captain have to run off on a suicide mission? Why did no one really give a shit about Chorus and the Rebels?

Bitters had been too busy staring daggers at the ceiling to notice that he was not alone. "Did… Did Felix find the Captains?" Matthews asked from his bed, voice weak enough to reveal that he already knew the answer.

So Bitters never really put effort into replying.

He merely turned over to stare at the wall.

Matthews asked no further. He did not even come over to pull Bitters' arm, demanding to get an answer because they had all been waiting anxiously for news ever since Felix left to find them.

Not that Bitters truly cared at this point; his Captain had left him. And now he was dead.

Who the fuck even cared any longer?

At least now he no longer had a reason to wear pink.

Bitters closed his eyes when Matthews began to weep quietly.

* * *

"What the _fuck_ , Simmons?" In order to rub the swelling bruise on his chin, Grif tore of his own helmet. He was now able to glare daggers at the cyborg who had pulled back and was now stuck in a statue-like stance again. "What is wrong with you?!"

"M-me?!" Simmons managed to make a stutter sound angry. "You're the one who- who-"

" _What_?!" Grif picked up his new alien gun. Not that he was going to shoot Simmons or anything but he had this horrible feeling that everything good was going to be taken away from him, and he could at least be allowed to keep this new cool toy.

"You almost got yourself killed. _Again_ ," Simmons hissed and brushed some dust off himself with angry swipes. He was trying his best not to look at Grif, even taking a step further away from him as if to join the others.

Normally Grif would have loved to test his limits, pushing Simmons just past the edge where he would drop the anger and sob instead. Grif could somewhat handle Simmons' tears. It was always awkward as hell but at least it had happened enough time before for him to feel somewhat practiced at it. It was better than a truly pissed off Simmons anyway.

But now Simmons' tone had that annoying edge to it; the same disgusted tone the Drill Sergeant back in Basic would use to insult Grif whenever he failed at an obstacle course. It brought back not so fond memories of Blood Gulch and Grif wondered how the fuck the Rebels had done with Simmons.

"What the fuck does that mean?!" he sneered back.

"Oh, you know!"

"No, I don't! That's why I am fucking asking you!"

"W-well, you should know!" Simmons' little stutter was back, signaling the he was either about to lose face or that he was in fact so angry that Grif should cover his face, just in case the nerd lashed out again. "Just because you're too stupid to realize why doesn't mean you're making it better!"

"Are we just shouting 'cause the teleportation made you deaf?!" Grif yelled back. "'cause, fine, yeah, we can do that!"

"Why are you such a dumbass?!"

"I don't even know what we are talking about!"

" _Exactly_!"

"Hey, you!" They both froze and turned their heads to see that everyone else was staring at them, with the exception of Carolina and Grey who were dealing with the Freelancer's wound. Church continued to bark at them from Tucker's shoulder. "Lovebirds. We seriously don't have time for this, so I'm letting you choose between three options – yeah, I'm that gracious. In two seconds you two are either going to kiss, slap each other again or walk away. Whatever you choose, that's the end of the this stupid scene that we seriously don't have time for."

"What?!" Simmons sputtered, turning to face the AI. "You can't-"

"One."

Grif was still glaring at Simmons. "Fuck you."

"Two."

The countdown ended. Simmons had turned his head so he was meeting Grif's glare. The cyborg was still hiding his face with his helmet, and Grif doubted he would take it off any time soon.

The two of them stared at each other for a brief second and then they both turned around and walked in opposite directions.

Simmons stopped dead in his tracks when he reached Sarge. "Good to have you back, Sarge," he said lowly, with a tone painfully happy enough to make Donut reach out and put a hand on his shoulders.

"I think-"

"See, Donut, I was sure our plan would work," Simmons cut him off with a steady voice. He turned to Sarge again, "I was the one who organized the rescue mission, sir."

"I see," Sarge huffed. "Only proves the Rebels are just as slow as last time! What did you have them do – pour you ice tea?"

Simmons let out the smallest sigh. "Yeah, something like that."

The Reds had gathered in their own little crowd, minus Grif was who marching away with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. That left the Blues to create their own little group.

"Oh, fuck you," Tucker sneered at Church.

"What?"

"While you've been on your own happy-go-lucky adventure, I've been dealing with a heartsick idiot! And now I thought we'd finally be over all that whining and then you had to come screw it up."

The AI snorted. "Oh, cry me a river."

"Yeah, Simmons did that sometimes," Caboose said with a small sigh and a shake of his head, remembering how the Red soldier would let out those sad noises if he saw something orange.

"You weren't there, you can't judge," Tucker snapped back. "Being the Love Doctor isn't easy, you know."

"I do have to admit that could have gone more gently," Wash admitted, casting a glance in the direction Grif had walked off in.

Tucker took a step closer to the Freelancer. "Right, you were the one stuck with Grif. Can't imagine that that has been easy."

"Well," Wash said, voice changing into that tone that made Church snort in the background. "It wasn't exactly the most preferable situation."

They remained like that for as long as they could, visors facing each other until Church began to flicker in discomfort behind them.

The moment did not last for long, however, since Caboose decided to jump between them, causing them both to pull back. "Are we having a staring competition again?!"

* * *

It was, strangely enough for all of them, by instinct that Wash was the one who went after Grif when Carolina began to talk about laser weapon. The Reds were still discussing why or why not the Rebels were better than the Feds and why the color light-ish red improved camouflage, so Wash decided to let them finish that conversation without interruptions. Mainly because he did not want them to ask for his opinion.

Grif's helmet was still off, now lying on the ground. The orange soldier himself was resting beside it, legs dangling over the edge of the cliff.

There was a cigarette between his fingers, and he had opened his mouth to exhale the smoke towards the falling sun. When Wash came close enough to let his footsteps be heard, Grif turned his head sharply.

Recognizing the Freelancer, his body language relaxed a bit but his eyes remained narrowed. "'sup?" he asked, waving carefully so he could make sure his cigarette did not go out. "Want a smoke?"

"Wha- No." Wash turned his head, seeing the weapon lying discarded next to the helmet. "We actually need to borrow the rifle that-"

"Sure," Grif replied, looking at the horizon again. "Whatever."

His bored, distant tone caused Wash to halt once he had the weapons in his hands. He shifted a bit as he considered, and then he finally said, "So Simmons seemed a bit… distracted," he said, one hand reaching behind to rub his neck awkwardly. "Tucker says denial isn't a permanent state and-"

"I'm gonna stop you there." Grif finally turned around to face him again. The cigarette was hanging from the corner of his mouth and his eyes were still narrowed, though this time in curiosity. " _You_ want to talk about relationship stuff? With me? Like that is not a seriously awkward thing to do?"

"Well, when you put it like that-"

"No, sure, tell me all about the stuff Tucker did to you when he got you within touching range again-"

"Alright, okay." Wash held up his hands. "Point taken. We should change the subject."

"No shit," Grif said. He stared at the jungle below him, hesitating, but then rose from his spot with a groan. Not like he could stay here the rest of the day. Shit was bound to happen again before dinner time if his life followed the usual routine.

And he _knew_ Simmons. He knew that the nerd had been spooked in order to act like this. Not that it made the situation any less shitty.

But a freaked out Simmons just needed some time to chill down. It reminded him of the alley cat that Kai would reach out to pet when she was younger; when you rushed out to grant them affection they would either hog their backs and hiss, or run away as fast as they could with a terrified shriek.

Grif threw the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the bottom of his boot.

Wash had soundlessly begun to wander back to the others, the strange weapon safe within his hands, and Grif decided to follow him. Not really much else to do; if he stayed here chances were Sarge would come to pick him up eventually, and that meant an increased risk of a red boot kicking him in the back and sending him over the edge into the jungle below.

Grif had been sent over enough cliffs for a lifetime so joining the others was probably the best choice.

He hesitated only once, foot frozen an inch above the ground as he prepared to take the next step. The realization was slow to creep up his spine but when it did he frowned.

And then he quickly pushed his helmet back on his head.

But it was a strange thought, really; the fact that they had almost died but hadn't. Not that it was that surprising since facing certain death and getting away with it just seemed to be their main skill for some reason.

Still, it did not change the fact how weird it was to leave another dead base behind. Leave all the rampage and the bodies behind because that was apparently their life by now.

And Grif briefly wondered if Felix and Locus' plan would succeed, and the Reds and Blues would leave behind a dead planet and move onto the next adventure.

Apparently Simmons and Donut had been promoted to Captains, and Grif was sure as hell happy he was not stuck with that responsibility. Just look at what had happened at the Fed base.

Grif had to look down just to be sure there was not any dried blood on his boots.

A hand was placed on his shoulder and when he recognized the pink glove he quickly shrugged it off.

"It's good to have you back, Grif," Donut told him with a warm voice. "I hope the Feds weren't too rough with you."

Well, if you looked away from the harsh introduction and Locus' constant lurking, the Feds had actually respected him more than anyone else since he had been forced into military. Kinda sad when you thought about it like that. "Yeah, 'cause I'm a delicate flower," Grif snorted.

Grif was thick-skinned. Whether this was something he had been born with or something he had developed was a question too complex and sober for him to deal with right now.

But it was a good thing he could deal with most shit being thrown at him since the rest of the day did not go better from there. First he just had to point out the connection between the future cubes and the laser rifle because it was so fucking obvious – wait, no, it was not obvious. Not like the others could see it. Grif was obviously a genius, even Carolina agreed with him, though she held back a bit when it came to the praising part.

But of course his asshole teammates had their own creative comments on the situation.

"That's your deductive reasoning?" Simmons hissed. "They're related because they're both orange and glowy."

"So?"

"So?!" the nerd sputtered. "If I heated your armor to a thousand degrees, would you think you're related too?"

With the tone Simmons had going it would not be too surprising if he actually decided to test his theory by throwing Grif into a volcano or something. Or maybe his angry stare would just burn through the visor and melt Grif on the spot. Who knew at this point?

"Fahrenheit or Celsius?" Donut asked but like always no one really bothered to answer him.

Grif fought his inner frustration and the urge to stomp in the ground. "Oh come on, there's clearly a resemblance!"

And enter Sarge. "Oh, of course. Just like the uncanny resemblance between apples and fire trucks, or Caboose and the Pacific Ocean, or Lopez and a dingleberry!"

"Okay," Grif said through clenched teeth. "I get it."

But of course the Blues should not be forgotten.

"Hey Grif, let me ask you a question, you ever get your sister confused with mustard? You know, since they're both yellow and cheap?"

Fuck holograms, and fuck the whole no-flesh-and-blood-body-is-cool-thing. Church deserved some bullets for that, even if the laws of physics forbade it. Fuck those laws anyway.

Also, fuck Simmons.

Fuck this planet in general.

* * *

Tucker almost did a double take when he caught himself checking if Simmons and Donut were hurrying the fuck up. It was then he remembered that they team had been expanded and in a way also divided. Splitting up usually meant a Red and a Blue Team 'cause that was obviously the quickest line to draw.

But it was suddenly hard to forget it was not just the four of them anymore. Not that he was complaining or anything. Wash and the others were back and that meant a mission fucking accomplished.

Yeah, and Church and Carolina had appeared as well. Hadn't seen that coming. Hadn't really fought for it either.

When he caught Wash turning his head to look for Grif and Sarge it became obvious he was not the only one with new habits. Being split up had apparently fucked with their team dynamics.

At least Grif and Simmons'. Obviously.

Church might have stopped them from bickering out loud but now the idiots were just pacing around with a good distance between each other, and Tucker could _feel_ the tension growing. And he doubted it was the good kind of tension that would actually bring them anywhere near a bed.

Simmons had been fucking _pining_ and Tucker had been forced to listen to all of it and now the entire team was back together, and Church just had to ruin it by putting Simmons under time pressure. Just one more thing to blame the AI.

Wash placed himself next to Tucker and now they were both staring at Simmons who was pacing around in the distance, hands being clenched into fists only to stretch out his fingers two seconds later.

If Tucker had learned some things while training with Simmons it was that the cyborg could not handle pressure or feelings.

So, yeah, things weren't really going that great for Simmons right now.

Well, okay, the entire situation was probably shit. Felix was apparently an asshole – not that he had not been an asshole before but now he was a _goddamn backstabbing asshole_ which was reaching a whole new level. Good for him – and they had been separated from their armies that were still trying to kill each other.

But…

Tucker let his eyes flicker towards Wash for a moment.

Yeah, not everything had gone to shit, at least.

"No wonder Red Team doesn't have drama," Tucker told Wash before the all gathered around Carolina who would give them the teleportation cubes, "- they should not be allowed to have it. They don't know how to handle it."

* * *

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?" Grif asked as he kicked over another trash bag. He was not really sure what he had expected to find under it. Maybe a cockroach. But it was not like he had been trying to find anything either. Just trying to look busy.

Simmons shot him a glance from the other side of the room. "Because Sarge ordered us to search for supplies while he and Donut find the manifest," he replied dryly.

Grif suspected it was Donut's plan to force the two of them to work together. So fuck Donut.

The canyon felt even smaller than how he remembered it.

"Right," Grif said and proceeded to kick another trash bag.

Simmons straightened out his body from his crouched position. "Nothing here but trash," he said dismissively and already began to walk out of what had been their make-shift home. "It's pretty fucking obvious that you have been living here."

"Wow, did someone piss on your calculator this morning or what?" Grif asked as he followed him outside into the canyon. Simmons made sure to walk even faster, keeping a meter between them.

"Well, we did have an ally who turned out to be traitor and we then discovered a plot designed to kill off an entire planet that is now depending on us and we are left unable to contact our men. So, yeah, not the best day, actually," the cyborg replied, tone just as sharp as before.

"Right. So why are you pissed at _me_?"

Simmons actually halted for a bit, hands turning into fists at his side. "Because you messed me- _everything_ up," he said, quickly fixing his mistake before it could sound like an actual confession.

He began to walk again, heading towards the area where the Blues had been living.

Grif continued to follow him but refused to pick up his speed. "See, I'm not even going to ask if you want to talk about it," he said calmly. "'cause I don't think I care to hear it."

"Good," Simmons sneered back. "Saves me the headache."

One of the computer screens was turned on. Grif walked closer to investigate. It was, of course, showing Donut's Basebook profile. Somehow he had received four notifications.

Grif considered messing with it but who would even notice? Seemed to be a waste of effort. Just like looking for supplies.

Their mission seemed rather fruitless. Not the part about finding the manifest – that was something they had not tried before.

But they had spent their first days in this canyon just searching for supplies. That had been a rather complicated task since everything had been thrown around during the crash. Guns and body limbs everywhere.

So now they were searching around every cupboard, every crack, under every surface to make sure they had not overlooked something. Grif had already grabbed some snack bars back at Red Base and shoved them in his armor pockets. But if this mood continued he doubted he would still have them when they met up with the others. A snack sure could lighten up the situation now…

Something red caught his attention and he crouched down on the other side of the big monitor. A piece of the metal had fallen off, revealing the space inside. It was mostly filled with tech stuff that Grif would never be able to recognize but he was fairly sure that was a box of ammo in the furthest corner.

He had no idea how it had ended there, but then again, he had no idea how that ripped off hand had landed under the box he had lifted in his search for snack cakes the first day after they had crashed. Well, the landing had been rather messy. Things flew around.

He reached out with his left hand, trying to squeeze between the metal parts.

Twisting and turning his hand, his fingers had just brushed against the box when he was pulled backwards, a hand grasping his shoulder. Simmons was revealed to be hovering above him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Grif had opened his mouth to tell him he was fucking doing their job so there was no reason to shout at him but Simmons continued, "That's the computer core! And it's overheating because _of course it is_ because Donut is using Basebook!"

"So-"

"Your hand," Simmons said through gritted teeth before turning his back to him. "Idiot."

Grif looked down at said hand, noticing how there seemed to have burned a hole through it. He even spotted something red underneath. But- "That's your hand," he pointed out. "It's fucking useless anyway."

He had felt a slight tingle before but nothing enough to alert him. Sarge had never been that great at fixing all the nerves so his donated limbs were not that good at reacting to pain. Rather useful, actually, living the life Grif had been forced to live.

"Good to know you are appreciating my selfless sacrifice," Simmons said dully as he crouched down.

It took Grif a second to realize the cyborg was now the one reaching for the ammo. "Hey, Einstein, the thing is still hot."

"I know," Simmons said but then pulled out his arm, holding the red package tightly. The back side of his glove was smoking slightly. "Metal hand."

"No shit, genius," Grif said, standing up. "You still need it to shoot with later."

Simmons let go of the package to check how if the limb had been seriously damaged. He looked up slightly. "Well, so do you, numbnuts."

"But it's _your_ stupid program," Grif had to remind him. He was about to blow air at the burn wound when he realized he was wearing a helmet. Oh well. The wound was not very big and he could still flex his fingers.

This was just Simmons blowing things out of proportions. Like always.

Simmons groaned, and for a moment Grif wondered if his cyborg limb actually hurt. But the maroon soldier had his hand on his helmet, apparently turning off a call. "Stupid Donut," he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, I'm sure he has a lot of thoughts to share about us at the moment," Grif said with a shudder, already fearing when Donut would choose to call him instead. "Too late for me; I already had Wash coming over to comment on our relationship. Put that on the list of stuff I don't want to happen ever again."

Even with his armor on it was clear that Simmons was frowning. He then pulled away, stepping backwards. "But… we're not in a relationship," he said, as if that was the end to that and Wash was obviously an idiot for not realizing this. Sarge called out in the distance, something about the manifest, and Simmons left to investigate.

Grif remained where he was.

Well, leave it to Simmons to point out the well-known facts.

* * *

Today was the day, as Kimball had put it.

To either die or live.

Probably die, things considered.

Huh.

The others wanted to do this, of course. Lot of stuff to fight for. Freedom, revenge.

Their Captains.

Bitters had seen it coming because how else could it have ended? Nothing good seemed to happen on Chorus. People like the Captains… Like Donut…The planet had not allowed them to live.

Good men, as Smith had called them. The war had taken good men. No shit.

Well, at least the shit would end today. In some way.

Bitters put on his pink helmet.

* * *

A/N: I had a hard time writing this chapter after watching episode 6. It just all felt so wrong. For non-FIRST Members – you guys have something to look forward to, trust me.

So I skipped a lot of dialogue in those scenes. Mainly because the Reds don't play a big role in the conversation, and I do not want to just add details to the transcript. So I hope you can all keep up, even if I jump around like crazy.

Next chapter will also include Simmons' confused and panicked thoughts about all this. I had to cut the chapter here, though the next chapter might be a bit longer.

Also, have I mentioned how mad I get when the others mock Grif, even when he turns out to be the smart one? 'cause it makes me mad. Like, I am a bitter human being. I have a lot of grudges. Don't get me started on Doc 'cause I have been sending him the stink-eye since season 2. …I'm very protective of Grif, okay?

I am slowly abandoning , meaning I won't be publishing new RvB stories here. Don't worry; my current stories will be finished here as well, but after that you can all find me on archieveofourown as RiaTheDreamer


	12. Tight Grip

**Shake  
** _Tight Grip_

 **[Shake;** _ **noun**_ **, an instant:]**

* * *

"Bitters!"

The name could somehow be heard through the chaos, and pink soldier turned his head sharply to find Matthews behind a metal crate. He quickly scanned his surroundings before rushing to the other end of the room, avoiding the enemy's bullets, and sliding into safety next to the Private.

"So," Matthews said, panting loudly, "I think things are getting out of hands."

"You think?!" Bitters grunted, suddenly jumped up to shoot over the crate. It seemed like no one even knew who they were shooting at any longer, the exits had been sealed and Bitters had separated from the other Lieutenants during some sniper fire.

And at this point Bitters was just pulling the trigger with a clenched jaw.

Yeah. They were definitely going to die here.

Oh. Not like he had expected anything else. His Captain was already dead. And Donut had been the biggest optimist Bitters had ever met, and he had been stuck around Jensen for years.

But Donut had believed they could do this, but Donut had obviously been wrong, and now Donut was dead, and Bitters and the others were going to die as well.

One of the Feds kept dodging his bullets, and Bitters let out a low growl. Matthews let out a surprised wail when Bitters suddenly leapt over the crate, rushing towards a nearby pillar to use that as cover while he advanced on the enemy.

Bitters would lean over the side every few seconds to fire some rounds of his own but suddenly he let go of the trigger as he realized the enemy was no longer there. His brain barely had the time to register the fact that the white armored soldier had appeared from behind the other side of the pillar.

The guy hit him over the head was his weapon, and Bitters was skidding across the floor, losing his grip on his rifle in the process.

The Fed stood above him in his triumph. "Nice try, pinky." He lowered his weapon so it was pointed at the Rebel's visor.

And Bitters, still fuming with anger, snapped back, "It's not pink!"

"Yeah," the Fed snorted. "Then what the fuck do you call it?"

" _It's light-ish red, you asswipe!"_

The soldier turned his head to stare at Matthews who was yelling from the top of his lungs.

Bitters saw his chance and reached for his rifle, grabbing the barrel.

He did just what Donut had taught him once in a training session.

Tight grip, then pull it hard and quickly.

It caught the soldier by surprise, and the handle of the rifle caught his foot, causing him to slip and land heavily on his back. Bitters wasted no time; turning his weapon around so the barrel was pointing at the enemy's visor and then he pulled the trigger two times.

When the helmet with the now shattered visor fell over to the side, the two soldiers of the Pink Team stared down at the body. "That was so cool!" Matthews chirped but then the anxiety came back to his voice, "Wasn't it? I mean, did I- did I do it right?"

Straightening out his back, Bitters turned to look at him, "Yeah. You were pretty cool."

Matthews sniffed. "Captain Donut would have been proud."

Bitters was about to think how they might die today but they would at least have had that moment (which would sadly have gone unnoticed by the rest of the world. This smooth move should have been recorded to be shown to future generations or some shit)…

…but then the transmission began.

* * *

Grif had withdrawn himself to sit alone on a rock. Tucker was bleeding out but Grey was there and she was a genius so that was a crisis dealt with. The others had been searching for Wash and when they found him he was still unconscious but Donut "knew a thing or two about sore heads" so that was another problem Grif did not have to deal with.

He looked down to cradle his left hand. Turning the palm upwards he looked at the round burn wound. It did not hurt, not even know when he had used his hand to beat up pirates. It was just that weird annoying tinge that was there just there, always, in the background.

Some hurt that had been pushed away until it was no longer relevant.

But the wound was still there.

He would have to clean it later. The battle had resulted in getting some dirt into it, and Grif would rather avoid an infection. Plus Simmons would never stop bitching about it if he ruined one of the donated limbs.

The bitching would probably be even worse now, with the mood Simmons seemed to be stuck in.

Grif sighed, leaning back against the rock. It had been easier with the situation back in Valhalla. That brief moment when Grif had been drunk enough to overstep the barrier. Afterwards he had pretended like nothing had happened, of course, and that now seemed like the best plan.

At least by ignoring the situation they had both been able to continue their seemingly complex relationship. Simmons had not changed. He had not withdrawn himself from Grif or started bitching at him and his voice had not changed into a cold snort whenever he insulted him.

Grif should have been smarter than freaking out Simmons like this. He should have pretended like everything was normal so Simmons could do that as well.

So maybe, given enough time and enough faked normalness, this argument or whatever could stop.

Grif pushed his right thumb down into the flesh near the reddened skin, adding pressure until it actually grew from a tingle into something painful, until the hand that had once been Simmons' stopped being so useless, until he could finally feel something…

He looked up when the ship was about to land. Well, help was coming. Finally. Not that Grif had been worried or anything. Doctor Grey had put a robot into a gun – surely she could keep Tucker's blood inside his body. And Wash' head had been messed up before. And, wow, Donut had not even been killed this time. All in all, this battle had actually gone quite well.

The ship landed and the doors opened. Out came soldiers Grif did not recognize. They were Rebels, of course, but Grif knew a good amount of Feds were still alive. The ones that had not been on the outpost with their heroes.

Grif watched Simmons and Donut stand up. The pink soldier was waving excitingly to two soldiers who were making their way towards him. Oh god, they had been forced to wear pink as well. Grif snorted loudly as he considered whether or not to pity them.

Simmons was still standing on his spot, rubbing his arm awkwardly, looking strangely tall and out of place like always. Another Rebel, this one with trims of a darker color of red, ran until she was standing in front of him. She seemed to be shuffling her feet, fidgeting with her hands, but then she suddenly leapt forward and threw her arms around Simmons.

The maroon soldier stiffened visibly in the hug, but then, slowly, after some seconds he seemed to relax. Grif watched as he patted the Rebel's back awkwardly, of course, since everything Simmons ever did was awkward.

Grif tore off his helmet and lit a cigarette. He watched as they carried Tucker and Wash inside, a Rebel running closely to Tucker's gurney, apparently holding his hand. Carolina stayed close to Wash, and Caboose was at her heels. There was a Blue trimmed Fed talking to him. Grey was with them. Lopez walked inside, and Donut and his pink soldiers followed him. Simmons stepped inside with his soldier bouncing around him.

Sarge told Grif to hurry it up.

Grif put out his cigarette by stepping on it, and then he followed the others.

* * *

"It's so frustrating!" Tucker groaned and clutched the hospital sheet and slammed the back of his head against the pillow.

Wash was sitting calmly in a chair next to him, watching Tucker's scowl grow bigger and bigger. The Freelancer had technically been released from the hospital though Grey preferred to keep him nearby for observation, just in case.

Not that it was a big problem; Wash was not leaving Tucker's side, and since he still needed some days' worth of bedrest to let the wound heal completely, they both stayed in his hospital room.

"I'm sure they will work it out," the Freelancer said and leaned back in his chair. But he knew they were actually getting through this rather easily; Grif and Simmons were yet to visit them in the medical wing at the same time. But rumors told that the Reds' arguments were loud enough to echo down the hallways of Armonia, whenever their voices got loud enough. But Grey was rather insistent when it came to the peace and quiet of a hospital, and no one dared to get on her bad side.

"Yeah, but it will take forever! I've dealt with a pining Simmons for long enough – now I have to deal with Simmons in denial?!" Tucker shifted to get in a better position. His wound did not even hurt any longer, but being stuck in bed made his limbs feel uncomfortably stiff. "Ugh, being the Love Doctor is hard work."

Wash smiled in amusement. "I can imagine that title is straining."

"I should have seen it coming," Tucker declared with a small sigh, as if disappointed with himself. "Denial is a natural stage of Grimmons."

"...Do I want to know what that is?"

"The ship name, of course!" Donut chirped joyfully as he entered the room. Tucker had tensed up briefly, believing it was Palomo who was once again trying to hold Tucker's hand or give him flowers or some shit. The pink soldier moved over a chair to sit on the other side of the bed. "We established the name long ago!"

Wash looked at Donut, then at Tucker, and then back at the Red again. "You two gave it a name?"

"Of course!" he said again, clasping his hands together. Donut inhaled before revealing, "I personally refer to you two as Wacker." When the stunned silence filled the room, he nodded excitingly to show that he meant it.

Wash' mouth was open for a while as he tried to find the right reaction. "I… have absolutely no words to comment on this."

Tucker looked almost thoughtful with the frown on his forehead. "That kinda sounds like a name you shouldn't say too fast three times in a row."

"They are deep within the denial zone right now. And you know what they say about going in too deep – it's going to become a struggle pulling yourself out!" Donut said as he changed the subject so it was about the Reds again. "Simmons is still blaming the whole thing on Grif, and Grif is tired of being accused all the time."

"But what is Simmons blaming him for?" Tucker asked. "I'm pretty sure he skipped that part and went straight to yelling."

"He's mad at Grif for causing emotions he has never felt before to stir up inside of him!" Donut revealed in a dramatic yet excited voice.

"That sounds like the summary of the last lame novel you forgot at Blue Base," Tucker eventually grumbled. "But yeah; Simmons sucks at handling emotions. Call the news in case anybody didn't already know this!"

Wash hesitated for a moment but then asked, "So what is the next stage of Grimmons? …Am I- Am I saying this right?" He looked around for any reactions caused by a mispronunciation.

Tucker cringed. "I don't think you should be saying the name. You're making it kinda weird."

"Yeah, you're not a part of the club," Donut added cheerfully, and at the thought of this being some weird club Tucker cringed even harder. After a short pause, Donut continued, "But we actually don't know about the next stage."

"Really?"

"Being the Love Doctor and all that you need some scientific data before throwing theories around. Too bad Grif and Simmons have been stuck in the denial zone since _forever_. It's all new territory from here." Tucker paused, considered the whole situation with a frown on his face, and then added dramatically, " _If_ they actually manage to leave the zone."

* * *

Grif's bandaged hand was holding a smoke. Armonia was like how the Feds had described it; big and impressive for Chorus' standards. The facilities were definitely better than the outposts Grif and the others had been stationed at during their "captivity".

His new bed was still cold. Very cold. He seemed unable to find a comfortable spot in it, so he had spent most of his night just staring at the ceiling.

Tonight he had left his bed in the search of some midnight snack. At least the food storage was bigger here. Too bad it was locked up, and the soldiers who were stuck on night duty were forced to walk a path were they could keep a watch on the supplies as well.

When that plan had failed, he had gone outside.

So now he had a smoke in one hand. He was standing outside one of the bridges connecting the tall buildings. Leaning against the railing he looked down at the quiet city that had gained a lot new inhabitants this week.

There was a whoosh-ing sound behind him, caused from one of the sliding doors being opened, and Grif half-expected Simmons to appear and scold him for smoking his third cigarette in one day.

But the soldier walking down the bridge was not Simmons. It was a Rebel, pink armor, and he halted when he saw the unarmored soldier. If the visor's direction could indicate anything, then he was looking at the cigarette.

Grif considered whether or not the guy was going to report him and whether or not it would actually get him into trouble. Eventually he decided to take the slow approach. "'sup?" He half-raised his cigarette in a lazy greeting. "You're one of Donut's guys."

The soldier stiffened into a defensive stance. Grif expected that from anyone being forced to wear pink armor. "Yeah. You're Grif." There was almost an insulting tone to it.

"Yeah," Grif answered dryly. "Good guess."

"You got half of Captain Simmons' face," the soldier pointed out, and Grif could almost feel the stare coming from the narrowed eyes on the other side of the visor.

"Ten points for observation. Good job."

The pink soldier snorted. The armor indicated he was on night patrol (poor guy. Pink armor and duties that sucked) but after a couple of seconds' hesitation, he went to lean against the railing as well, two meters way from Grif. He took of his helmet, never glancing at the older man next to him, and fished a package of cigarettes out from one of the armor pockets.

Grif watched it from the corner of his eyes and he had to hold back a snort. If the soldier was trying to look cool, it would have worked better had the package not been so obviously old. It looked like it had been carried around for a while, worn and torn at the edges, and the cigarettes looked slightly crooked. They were a rate treat and had obviously been saved for a special occasion or some shit. Maybe sentimental value. The Feds had been carrying around all sorts of luck charms that never really seemed to work for them.

Doubting that the guy even had a lighter on him, Grif fished out his own and held it out as an offering.

The soldier accepted it and seemed to be studying it for a moment, looking at what was left of the palm tree that had been decorating the lighter before time began to tear off the painting in flakes. "Thanks."

Grif could almost laugh – the guy on Donut's team was a smoker! A bit out of shape, seeing how it took him some tries to lit it, but he did not double over to cough his lungs out or anything.

He briefly reminded Grif of Gelman, though it was probably just given how young the soldiers were here. Where Gelman's expression had been excited and joyful, this guy looked like he was suffering from a permanent scowl. His bangs were long enough to fall into his eyes; something that was bound to annoy every superior facing him. Grif could respect that.

"So," Grif said, exhaling smoke into the night, "any reason you felt like hanging out with a stranger? I'm not giving out autographs if that is what you were looking for."

Turning around slightly to stare back at him, the Rebel said with thoughtful eyes, "They don't like you smoking near an outpost. Too much explosive everywhere. But if I get caught tonight, I can say you allowed it and they would actually believe it." Some of the hair was brushed aside, and Grif was able to see the challenging look in his eyes, daring Grif to scold him for this.

But Grif just let out an amused huff. "Huh. I like the way you think." He shifted slightly so he was leaning more comfortably against the railing. "Tell me, what do you think about snack cakes?"

The soldier froze, obviously fearing a trick-question. He looked up in suspicion before saying, "Pretty good, I guess. _Why_?"

"'cause then I might have a proposition for you, uhm-" Grif trailed off, realizing he was yet to be given a name.

The soldier tilted his head, at least revealing an interest in the offer. "Bitters."

"Bitters," Grif said, nodding in satisfaction.

The Rebel reached out to give him back the lighter.

* * *

The one hour Wash was away from Tucker ("Hey, only saying it 'cause I care but you reek. Pretty sure they have showers somewhere in this place"), Simmons quietly slipped into the hospital room. Not that there was any reason for alarm; Tucker was actually going to be discharged from the hospital later that day.

Simmons said nothing but without his helmet his painful-looking frown was very obvious. Tucker folded his hands, staring at the cyborg as he waited.

Slipping into the chair Wash would usually sit in, Simmons remained quiet, biting his lip.

Tucker stared at him.

Simmons remained quiet.

It was obvious that the Red had come to him for an advice so Tucker was going to give it to him.

Eyes narrowed and with a flat voice, Tucker said it, "Fuck."

Simmons whimpered and fell forward towards the bed, burying his face in his arms.

Tucker looked down to watch him with an amused expression. "Or, you know, you should probably take it a bit more slowly. Talk about it, scream a bit, make up for lost time, then fuck."

"It doesn't work like that," Simmons muttered, mouth muffled by his own arm.

Waving that comment off, Tucker said, "You're making it complicated, dude."

"I'm pretty sure the core of all this complicated."

"That sounds like something a guy who is making things complicated would say." Simmons whimpered again, and Tucker leaned back in his bed. "Jesus Christ, you guys are _hopeless_."

Simmons inhaled sharply before admitting, "…I know."

* * *

Kimball put his glance upon orange-armored soldier. "Grif, I hear you are a qualified driver."

The mention of his name caused him to be pulled out of his thoughts – as usually meetings were the best opportunities to drift off. The Blues had already left to deal with their duties, leaving the Reds alone with Kimball. Raising his head, Grif replied, "Better than anyone else on the team."

"Good." Kimball sounded satisfied which was strange. But at least she seemed to function better in command than Doyle. But that just meant she had more expectations. "I want you to be a part of the extraction team. Bring two Federal soldiers, preferably someone who has been stationed in that area before."

If Grif was about to protest – a mission still sucked since it was technically a mission but at least this one would not involve shooting, just driving and picking up crates – but Simmons was quicker to speak, "Are you sure you want Grif to drive? You said those were valuable resources."

"Hey!" Grif said and doubted he even sounded insulted at this point – Simmons had been firing insults at his direction from the moment they entered Armonia and at this point he was just getting tired.

Simmons turned his head to stare at him. The helmet probably hid his narrowed eyes. "Have you kept count of how many times you've crashed? Because I have."

Donut tilted his head in thoughtfulness. "I actually enjoy Grif's bumpy rides. Makes your stomach tingle."

Grif had just flipped Simmons off when Kimball broke up the argument. "I will put trust in your skills. The team will be ready to head out at ten."

And Grif had barely nodded before Simmons cut in again, "Wait, is he going alone?"

"Wow, is that concern I hear, Simmons?" Grif's question was sarcastic, of course – he already knew the answer.

"I'm just saying that putting _you_ in charge of something have a 90 percent chance of ending in failure. At least."

Sarge huffed in the background, "Can't argue against that."

"Captain Donut has already been assigned to help Tucker with the Lieutenants' daily training drills."

"We all know he can get a little rough in his routine," Donut added helpfully. "So I'll be there to encourage them to get to the end of it."

"And Sarge has volunteered to help Wash with the first training sessions involving the younger soldiers."

Grif frowned behind his visor. "…Does Wash know of that plan?" That was just another reason to stay behind – he really wanted to see how that scene would play out.

Kimball tilted her helmet when she looked at Simmons. "I suppose we could rearrange your armory duties so you could join Grif on the mission."

"What? No. That's- that's not what I meant!"

Grif rolled his eyes and then remembered that no one could see the rude gesture. "Yeah. I don't need a backseat driver."

"With your driving?" Simmons huffed. "You certainly do. You're going to get yourself killed – _Not that I am signing up to be the backseat driver_!" he quickly added breathlessly, looking back and forth from Grif to Kimball.

"Buuuut," Donut began, looking at the General as well.

Kimball's voice was stern. "We have nobody else available. Whether you go or not is your decision."

"Hey, don't I get a say in this?" Grif protested.

Not that it mattered.

Simmons had already made the choice.

* * *

Grif was gripping the steering wheel tightly, suddenly very eager to get the mission fucking started already. The few Feds they would bring along had filled out their own jeep, so now Simmons was slowly making his way towards the Warthog Grif was sitting in.

When he tried to enter it, however, Grif let go of the steering wheel to lean to his right, preventing Simmons from placing himself in the seat. "Get in the back," Grif said, voice steady and sour. "We're _not_ on a date."

Simmons froze, looking at him as if dumbfounded. Then he let out an offended huff and got behind the machine gun.

Grif made sure to drive fast enough to make Simmons yelp behind him.

If Simmons wanted to act pissy – fine. Grif had dealt with that before. But now Simmons was set on acting pissy _and_ hovering around Grif.

…If Grif could get the nerd to throw up, it would make him feel just a little bit better.

* * *

"You're supposed to lift with your legs," Simmons commented as he walked past Grif who let out an ungrateful huff as an answer. They had finally reached the Fed base, after a long and uncomfortably silent Warthog ride. Or maybe the silence had actually been kind of comfortable. Better than Grif talking about stuff he knew nothing about.

Grif ignored him and continued to lift the crate with his back.

"Don't come to me when you complain about being sore later," Simmons huffed and picked up his own crate of supplies.

The Fed Base was partially underground, and they were currently in the tunnel that served as the place's vehicle entrance. Simmons gulped down the claustrophobic feeling that was caused by being underground.

But this place seemed steady enough; he looked up to glance at the cave ceiling just to be sure.

They knew a lot of battles during the civil war had taken place here. Simmons wondered how many Rebels had died at this outpost. Grif probably wondered how many Feds had died.

The Feds they had brought along on the mission were obviously more comfortable with Grif than they were with Simmons. They asked Grif the questions which was weird. You should not ask Grif for stuff. He never knew the right answers. He just… messed up stuff.

Simmons placed his crate on the back of the Feds' jeep, trying not to make a strained sound when let go. But the crate had been heavy, and a noise would have been perfectly normal. Grif basically groaned when he slammed down his crate next to Simmons'.

"Alright," he yelled out, calling to the Feds in the jeep. "It's all loaded. You can drive back now – we'll catch up."

As he turned away to begin the heavy work of loading the last crates into the Warthog, Simmons was pretty sure he heard him mumble under his breath, "Good for them."

At least there were only two crates left. Which was lucky since they were pretty heavy and there was only a limited amount of space in the Warthog due to the machine gun.

Grif was marching away with angry steps, and Simmons was following him, making sure there was a certain distance between them.

And then the Feds tried to start the jeep.

Apparently Jensen was not the only bad driver around here, since the first thing that happened was the jeep backing up into the tunnel wall with enough force to make the gravel shake near Simmons' feet.

He looked up at the ceiling and felt it.

Felt the whole tunnel shake, groan in protest, fall in on itself to land on top of Simmons who was suffocating because _it was happening again_ -

" _Grif_!"

Simmons leapt forward, and that brief moment reminded him of Sidewinder, those seconds when he was reaching out and _still not touching-_

But then his body slammed into Grif's, and Simmons just hoped he had used enough force when he jumped because _they both needed to get on the other side before the cave entrance collapsed-_

They landed roughly on the ground, limbs tangled together once again.

And Simmons looked up and saw that the ceiling had not collapsed.

A few pieces of rocks had fallen from it, as well as some dust, but that was about it.

The Feds had turned around in their seats, sending them strange looks from the jeep.

Simmons never noticed them. His body was pressed against Grif, and he could not speak, and he was shaking, but it was okay and this was not Crash Site Beta and the cave had not collapsed. They were still on the same side, and they were not separated, and _it was okay_.

It took some seconds before Simmons' brain calmed down enough to notice that Grif's arm was around his back, clutching him just as tightly as Simmons was clinging on to him.

* * *

A/N: I adore my Simmons and Tucker friendship. Like, I'm gonna first them to be close buds in my future fics. I have plans… (even though I am still so bitter with Tucker 'cause of the beginning of episode 7)

Wacker is the new ship name. I honestly thought it was called that before I joined the fandom. I present you my frustrations in this chapter. It went a bit too meta and I love all of it. Fuck the fourth wall.

So… It happened. Finally. About freaking time, huh.

Also I apparently suck at counting and this story will only have 14 chapters instead of 15.

Two chapters left, guys! I am freaking out!


	13. Orange and Maroon

**Shake  
** _Orange and Maroon_

 **[Shake:** _ **verb used without object**_ **; to tremble with emotion, cold, etc.]**

* * *

"What. The fuck. Is that?!"

"Uhm…" Simmons could not stop the corners of his lips from forming a smile. "That is Griff the Cone."

Grif had been bowing down, staring at the cone, but now he turned his head to glare at the cyborg. "Oh my god, you replaced me."

"No!" Even though Simmons had replied as quickly as possible he could not stop his cheeks from growing red. There was a slight stutter to his voice as he continued, "It's- it's just Caboose's stupid toy. He made it when… He thought it would make me feel better."

For a moment Grif just stood there with a somewhat pouty look on his face. "Seriously, Simmons?"

"Oh, shut up," the cyborg said and blushed even harder. After the mission – which had turned out to be quite a success; no casualties, they brought home all the supplies and everyone had seemed weirdly pleased when they returned – they had retreated to Simmons' room where they had begun to take off their heavy armor.

"What? Did you cuddle with it?" Grif tried to tilt the cone over with his rifle but he did not use enough force and the cone mockingly fell back in place. "For fuck's sake, when will people start learning my name?" he exclaimed after seeing _Griff_ written on the side.

Simmons let out a weak chuckle that could easily be mistaken as a heavy exhale. He had taken off his undersuit, pulling the blanket away to prepare his bed, when he noticed that Grif had stripped to his boxers as well. "You… don't have to do this," Simmons said quietly staring at his pillow. "Not that I am telling not to do it, I'm not telling you anything, you shouldn't, I mean, it's your-"

"Simmons, I'm too tired to deal with broken mirrors tonight. Can't we just skip straight to comfort-cuddling?"

The cyborg's face grew red again when Grif used that term. "It's not- Agh. Just-"

"Don't say you preferred the cone." Unable to resist the possibility of sleeping on a soft mattress, Grif was the first one to drop down on the bed. He immediately stole the blanket for himself.

"You're terrible tonight," Simmons huffed, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Grif opened on eye. "I don't think _you_ can bitch about _my_ behavior."

Tensing up, Simmons dug his fingers into the sheet. "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice, glaring at the floor.

"Ah, shit." Grif exhaled loudly. "Can't we skip that part as well? Look, you do dumb shit when stressed, and I-" He frowned, closing his eyes again. "I get what you were trying to say. Or not say. Fuck, can't we just nap? I almost got hit in the head with a rock today and then you body-slammed me… You do know you're like 40 percent metal, right? You should practice your hugs."

"Whatever, your stomach works like a cushion," Simmons grunted before lying down as well. Grif shifted, granting him enough space to get comfortable, and Simmons stubbornly grabbed the corner of the blanket, claiming at least some of it to cover his body. But Grif followed along, as if the blanket was a part of him, and suddenly Simmons was comfortably warm with the other man's body pressed against his.

"I missed you too, you know." Grif shifted again, mouth almost pressed against the back of his neck. He sounded sleepy. "Fed bases are so fucking cold."

Simmons' breathing hitched slightly when the Hawaiian nuzzled his face against him again, but then Grif used his incredible skill of falling asleep within three seconds. His chest moved in rhythmic patterns that Simmons could not help but fall into.

It had been hard to calm down ever since the almost cave-in. He was pretty sure his fingers were still shaking, the flesh ones at least. That had been the reason why Grif had refused to leave him alone. There had been times like this before, especially after Sidewinder, where the nightmares would harass them. Sharing bed had been the right option; somewhat normal, just a way to get through the military life.

Simmons refused to think too much of it now, even though Grif had never leaned this close to him before. His skin was practically burning against Simmons', and the cyborg barely dared to move.

But Grif's steady heartbeat was strangely calming, and Simmons' eyelid grew heavy. It was such a weird thought; Simmons' heart beating inside Grif…

* * *

Simmons had just reached the part of the dream where the knife would sink into Grif's shoulder and he would _scream_ – and then Simmons woke up, gasping for breath.

He barely had the time to panic – and he was always panicking, always struggling to breathe, despite how this happened _every fucking night_ – before Grif just hugged him closer, draping an arm around him.

Simmons closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, got his breathing under control. He was not even sure if Grif was awake at this point.

He hesitated for only a second, but then he gently grabbed Grif's hand. Simmons used a finger to gently trail along the bandage that was covering his palm. He was sure not to put enough pressure to make it hurt.

Simmons swallowed and pulled Grif closer by cradling his hand against his chest, skin pressed against metal.

* * *

There was no way anyone could have known about the fact that he and Grif had shared a bed together. Grif would not tell, and Simmons most certainly would not tell. Yet everybody seemed to be staring at them as they walked down to the mess hall.

"Would you knock it off?" Grif muttered as he walked alongside him. "Geez, how would you look if we robbed a bank?"

"We're not going to rob a bank," Simmons answered promptly, as if that had even been a question. Behind his visor, Grif rolled his eyes.

With a shrug, Grif continued casually, "I mean, we start small. 'sides, mess hall is way better than a bank. We see how tonight works, we adjust the plan after the results."

Simmons stopped walking. "…What?" he asked when his jaw was finally working again.

"Nothing," Grif said quickly and before Simmons could ask any much needed questions he pushed the door open to the mess hall and stepped inside.

Donut found them immediately. "Hey, guys! Did you sleep well?"

Oh, god. Donut knew. Didn't he? Simmons was not even sure how but Donut had a sixth sense when it came to finding uncomfortable things to talk about.

"Please just tell me you guys have better coffee than the Feds because I need it to deal with _that,"_ Grif grumbled and gestured towards Donut's grinning face.

Tucker had apparently been released from the medical wing, and he walked to their table next to Wash. There was a slight second of hesitation as they realized their usual table was a bit crowded now when they had gotten their friends back. Tucker took place in front of Simmons, but for the first time he had Wash sitting to his left.

"So," Tucker said with a raised eyebrow, "did I miss anything?"

"Your Rebels suck at driving," Grif informed the Blue, and by doing this saved Simmons was who slowly growing red under Tucker' curious stare. He then turned his head to face Wash and waved his spoon at him. "You've been warned; they seriously suck."

"I've heard Kimball talk about assigning you the task of the vehicle management around here," Wash revealed, and that earned him a snort from the Hawaiian.

"What? You guys become fucking Captains and I'm the new cab driver?"

"You got the color right."

Grif flipped off Tucker. "It's orange. _Orange_. Seriously, I thought Wash was the one with the busted head."

"Is your head still sore?" Donut asked. "I might be able to give you some relief. I know this amazing massage-"

"No thanks."

"-but the oil-"

"I'll be alright," Wash said quickly, pretending not to see Grif's grin, and then he abruptly changed subject. "Does anyone know how Sarge has been dealing with Armonia?"

"The same as everybody I guess," Simmons replied with a shrug. He was twisting his spoon in the porridge but did not show any desire to eat. "This place is pretty amazing. Much more civilized than the Rebel HQ. I didn't know about the Fed bases-"

"The Fed bases sucked," Grif cut in. "It had snow, Simmons. _Snow_."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder you didn't die."

"What's the deal between Sarge and Doctor Crazy? He kept bursting into my hospital my room to show her his shotgun. One time he surprised her so much she accidently put her needle in a place that was absolutely not fucking meant to be stitched."

"Am I the only one genuinely concerned about the amount of craziness this is and can become?" Grif asked with his mouth full, crumbs stuck to his chin. Simmons could not stop staring. "It's like adding dynamite to… I don't know, acid or something? It's weird and dangerous."

"Well, as long as they agree on the safe-words they should be able to handle it." Donut said with wisdom in his voice. Tucker looked like he was about to burst out laughing while Wash looked slightly uncomfortable with this new subject. However, with the way his mouth was slowly forming a smile it was clear he was amused.

Grif swallowed a mouthful of porridge. "I bet Sarge's safe-word is ' _shotgun'_."

That earned him a low groan from the Freelancer – it probably brought back memories of the taste of a Warthog's bumper. Grif smirked.

"Hah," Tucker exclaimed with a big grin on his face. "I'd put my money on that guess."

"But you're wrong." No one had expected Simmons to speak up, especially not when it came to this subject. They all turned their heads to stare at him but instead of growing red under the stares, Simmons inexplicably sent them a small, knowing smile. "According to the statistics, Sarge's safe-word would be ' _safe-word_ '."

There was a moment of consideration and then they all burst out laughing.

"It's a valid guess," Simmons sputtered and crossed his arms. "I mean, his password is ' _password_ '-"

"Simmons!" Donut exclaimed and covered his mouth in shock. It took a couple of seconds before cyborg realized his mistake but when he did everyone could tell by the lack of color in his face.

At least the others were too busy chuckling to realize they could now hack into Sarge's computer. "Wow, Simmons," Grif said and – did he wipe a tear from his eye? He could not remember the last time Grif had laughed like that. "Way to use your nerd brain. Pretty sure you just figured out some classified information."

Wash had too much dignity to laugh loudly but he could not hold back a happy snort.

Simmons' face was still redder than Red Team's flag and his attempt to explain himself only ended in some unintelligible stuttering. Finally, as a desperate move, he suddenly pulled out a small white bottle. "Your pills." he muttered sourly and shoved them into Grif's hands.

"Oh." The Hawaiian gulped them down with the coffee – whenever he tried to swallow them dry Donut would comment on his swallowing skills, which was an unpleasant conversation for everyone.

Simmons sighed in annoyance. "And just how did you survive on the Fed Base again?"

"The usual," Grif said, and for a moment his eyes flickered towards Wash, "by luck."

* * *

Simmons had learned to swallow his pride a long time ago. It did not make it feel better, but it made him aware of what he had to do. He knew he had been overreacting a bit, just the slightest. But not without reasons, of course!

But this was not just him pushing away Grif.

There had been other mistakes.

And as a good Captain, Simmons had to face them.

He straightened out his back and with long steps he marched towards the railing Bitters was leaning against. When he noticed the cigarette the Lieutenant was holding he frowned but he kept himself from beginning a scolding. That was not why he was here right now.

Even though smoking was against the rules plus a danger to his health. And the environment and his fellow soldiers. But Simmons could keep quiet about all that.

"Heeey, Bitters!" he said with all the confidence he could gather in his voice. The Lieutenant looked up, clearly aware of Simmons' presence, but he did not say hello or even raise his hand as a greeting. "So, uhm, we have to talk."

"Oh god."

Simmons tried to copy Bitters' stance, leaning against the railing like he was _chill_ and _cool_ and he did not care about anything. But, well, he did care and Captains probably should not look this relaxed. Keeping one hand on the railing, Simmons turned to face the younger soldier. "I have been considering somethings and I have become aware that I might have treated you unfairly in the past and, well, I want you to know that if you still want that spot on my team you can join us."

The fact that Bitters had taken off his helmet did not help the slightest. Somehow the Lieutenant's expression was more unreadable than an actual visor. He exhaled the smoke into Simmons' face and the cyborg struggled not to wrinkle his nose.

The thought of being around Bitters and this behavior every day was not pleasant but he could deal with it. He had to.

"Actually," Bitters finally said, tapping his cigarette, "I've changed my mind."

"W-what?"

"I don't want to be stuck on the Girl Team," the Lieutenant said with a shrug. "'sides, I think you're kinda insane…"

" _What_?"

Bitters nodded gravely. "Yeah… No thanks." And with that he put out the cigarette with the heel of his boot and began to walk away.

Behind his visor Simmons had dropped his jaw. "B-but-" When the Lieutenant began his escape Simmons could not help but take a few step forwards, almost reaching out with one hand. "I'm the one _offering_ \- I'm not insane, I swear! You just caught me on a bad day! I'm- I'm a whole other person once you get to know me!"

"…Why are you sounding like Bitters just broke your heart?"

Simmons jumped in surprise when Grif asked the question. He had still not figured out how Grif was capable of moving that quietly but he had managed to appear behind Simmons without a sound. "Grif!" The cyborg spun around, hands raised as if shielding himself. "I'm not – he's- Wait, how do you know Bitters?"

Now it was Grif who looked like he had been caught in the act. Since the orange soldier never cared about safety protocols, he was not even wearing his helmet which revealed a slightly frantic expression – but just for a second before Grif's face looked bored again. "C'mon, Simmons. You know all smokers know each other. Organized smoke breaks and all that."

"Oh. Right."

"Cool dude," Grif said and looked in the direction Bitters had wandered off in. "Real maverick."

"Donut thinks he's a great Lieutenant," Simmons felt like adding.

"Too bad for Bitters. Guy's too good to be stuck in pink."

"Well," Simmons said, trying to ignore the last piece of hurt from Bitters' rejection, "life is unfair."

* * *

Simmons was still wringing his hands when the door was opened and someone stepped into the darkened room. "Grif."

"Holy fucking shit, Simmons!" the Hawaiian exclaimed after almost shrieking in surprise. He had jumped so high that he would have bumped his head against the ceiling had he not been so small. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!"

"I – sorry."

He turned off the light to see Grif standing in the middle of the room, hand on his chest. "I told you I'd be out late. The, uhm, flat tire and all that." He looked away, suddenly more interested in the wall behind Simmons.

The cyborg forced himself to ignore Grif's shady explanation for staying out late – it had sounded just as wrong when he had told Simmons about it during lunch. Grif was the new main driver, in charge of supply runs. He did not have to work as a mechanic afterwards. But there were more important things to discuss right now.

"We, uhm, we need to talk."

"Ah, shit." Grif dropped his helmet at his feet, looking absolutely sullen when he straightened out his back again. "You're kicking me out? I still have that room Kimball gave me but I've been using it for stashing… _stuff_." He scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable again.

Simmons blinked. "No. It's not _that_ , it's- There was a pirate ambush today."

"Ah, shit." The other man ran a hand down his face before looking up at the cyborg. "Any of the kids die? Simmons, you know this isn't your fau-"

"No, Maroon Team wasn't involved in this," Simmons quickly cut in. "Some… Caboose lost a few men but Tucker is handling that…"

Grif looked more calm when given these pieces of information. He began to take of the rest of his armor. "Not to deny the shittiness of this situation or anything but… Just what does that have to do with _us_?"

"Well, I just… This is an actual _war_ , Grif. We could die."

"Shit." Grif's eyes flickered towards Simmons for a moment – and then he leapt towards the bed.

Simmons jumped after him. "No, you don't!" He landed on the mattress, bounding once, and then proceeded to throw his arms around Grif's torso. "You don't get to escape by napping from this!"

"Siiiimmons," Grif whined, trying to burrow his face in the pillow. "Every time you get reminded of your own mortality you think the solution is either to push me away or get super clingy. We just went through the clingy phase. I don't want to go back to the insults."

The cyborg lifted his face from Grif's shoulder. "I don't do that." A moment after he added, "Okay, I may have done that. But I am not good at…at dealing with all this."

"Yeah, no shit." Turning over so he was actually looking at Simmons, he continued, "Look, I might die. You might die. It's always been that way. And we haven't died yet. So can't we just… continue that rhythm? It seems like we have that going for us."

"Yeah. Yeah." Simmons swallowed but did not loosen his grip on the Hawaiian. "I just… I don't want you to die."

"Why, thank you, nerd, I don't want you dead either. This is so romantic!"

"Shut up, you know what I mean." Simmons rested his face against Grif's skin again, wondering how the Hawaiian always managed to feel warm. "Just… Don't die. And don't get captured by Feds again!"

"Hey, the Feds are on our side now!"

"Doesn't change the fact that you should practice your running skills."

"Don't ruin the moment, Simmons."

For a moment they just lay like that. Simmons closed his eyes and enjoyed the familiar smell of cigarettes and sweat. Grif had called him clingy but to be honest Simmons was just… making up for lost time? Besides, Grif had proven that he could not properly take care of himself so keeping an eye on the idiot was basically one of Simmons' duties. That was not clinginess. That was being responsible.

"You know, the Lieutenants think we are married," he suddenly muttered into Grif's shoulder.

The Hawaiian moved slightly, opening his eyes. "What? Did you-"

"Tucker did it."

That caused Grif to chuckle, chest vibrating beneath Simmons.

Simmons swallowed again. "And, I, you know, I wouldn't mind the… _married stuff_. Like, if…" He breathed in deeply. "If we die, we should go out together. And share gravestone and stuff."

Grif froze.

Simmons held back a scream.

"Oh my god, Simmons. You do not ask a man to share a gravestone before you have offered him to share a coke."

"Well, we can do that _too_ -"

" _Simmons._ " The tone in Grif's voice caused him to lie still and just listen. "You are being extremely dorky and adorable right now, and ditto and all that, but, seriously, enough with the death talk. That's not the mood I am going for right now."

It took a moment before Simmons realized what he meant. "Oh. _Oh_."

Grif said nothing but merely draped an arm around his neck, snuggling closer.

In the midst of this calmness Simmons' mind began to race. If Grif wanted _that_ mood did that mean Simmons had to start it? Grif had said before it was never a good idea to pressure Simmons because that would cause him to freak out – which was highly unfair since Simmons did not _freak out_ , he just had minor panic attacks which was something completely different.

And it was not like Simmons had no idea of what to do now. He had tried this before. Well, not _this_ but something alike. He had tried to kiss a girl back in High School – and now he was reminded of that horrible chess date again.

So that might not have been the same _mood_ that Grif was talking about but it was _something_ and Simmons was not completely useless, especially not now when he felt stressed because they were in the middle of a warzone and Grif could die tomorrow or Simmons could die tomorrow and this might be the only chance to –

"What the fuck?" Grif turned his head so he was staring at Simmons. He was frowning. It looked like he might be close to laughing.

Simmons gulped. "I… have no idea of what I'm doing…"

"Did you just bite my shoulder?" Grif gasped when the realization hit him. "Did you try to be sexy?"

"Grif-"

" _Kinky_. Did you read Donut's _Twilight_ books?"

" _Grif_!" The cyborg sighed in defeat and slammed his face against the mattress. " _Never mind_."

Grif chuckled, rolling over to follow him to the other side of the bed. He hugged him tightly. "Doesn't matter. I can't get in the mood with that _thing_ staring at us."

"It's a cone, Grif!"

"It has eyes, Simmons!"


	14. Anelletti

**Shake  
** _Anelletti_

* * *

 **[Shake:** _ **noun**_ **; a cast of the dice:]**

* * *

"This is just like the civil war," Palomo whispered in excitement as they prepared their positions, leaning against the wall for cover.

"But, Charlie," Jensen whispered back, "the civil war is over! We're fighting the actual bad guys!"

"I mean the Captain America movie, duh! You know, friends taking opposite sides, fighting against friends. I'm still Iron Man and we're all following the law and rules and all that. We need to give you two new roles so it all matches up."

Smith looked around the corner for a moment, making sure they were not about to be ambushed. "Would that make Bitters Captain America?"

"Wha – No." Palomo snorted, obviously scowling behind the visor. "He isn't cool enough."

"I feel bad for Captain Simmons," Jensen said and lowered her glance to stare at the floor. "He has to fight his own husband."

" _We're not married_ ," the Captain shrieked as he rounded a corner with his rifle on his back. As he took his stance in front of them, he placed his hands on his hips. "It's… just something Tucker says. Okay, I set the trap. If they slip past us they won't be getting out again."

Palomo's helmet tilted upwards, revealing he just had a realization. "Ooh, like a mousetrap?"

Simmons gave him an approving nod. "The staff actually thought it was mice at first…" He trailed off, remembering how the rumors had spread and how Simmons connected the dots when Grif kept disappearing in the middle of the night and all the times he had seen his talking quietly with Bitters in the corner.

"We need to focus," Simmons suddenly said, both to himself and the three Lieutenants surrounding him. "The Generals are counting on us. You know your duty."

"Yes, sir," they all said, raising their hand to salute him.

Simmons began to pace back and forth, hands behind his back, using that loud and stern commander voice that would actually make the recruits straighten out their backs. It had taken some time before he had learned how to use it but he kept thinking back of the day where the hungover version of him had snapped at Bitters. And while he did not approve of shouting at the young soldiers like that, the day had taught him he was able to shout out orders and not give a shit when he actually focused on the goal.

"They must be stopped." He clenched a fist. " _We_ must stop them."

Palomo raised a hand. "Uhm, sir, can we use actual bullets?"

"What?! _No_! Are you crazy?!" Simmons looked down at the Lieutenant, dumbfounded, but Bitters just shrugged. Finally the Captain let it go and he continued his orders, "The most important thing is to film them while they are red-handed. We need to bring back proof to Kimball. But even better if we capture them and drag them back to her. No better proof than that. But we need to catch them with their hand in the cookie jar."

"Question?" Palomo said, hand raised again. "Are we talking about the actual cookie jar or-"

"It's a phrase, Palomo."

"Good. Because that thing was stolen two nights ago."

Smith cleared his throat. "But we can attempt to locate it if necessary."

"No thanks." Simmons looked around the corner again. The mess hall was quiet. Too quiet. It would happen soon. And they had to be ready for it. "Alright, everyone on their post. We can't let them get away with this."

"We won't let you down, sir," Jensen promised with a sniffle.

As the group began to split up, the Lieutenants heading in different directions so they could cover all areas, Simmons made sure to remind them: "Remember, I want them alive."

Simmons set his jaw before he slipped into the darkened corners of the closed mess hall.

* * *

"We're so fucked."

"Shut it, Bitters."

They were both hiding behind the counter that separated the dining tables from the actual kitchen. When they peeked over it they could see the lights of the flashlights that belonged to the soldiers guarding the exit.

Grif was getting serious _Jurassic Park_ vibes at this point, and he remained crouched behind cover. Question was whether the other Lieutenants would be stupid enough to attack a reflection. Palomo might. Perhaps it was worth a try.

They had not even managed to get their hands on the prize before they realized something was wrong. Jumping behind a table they had seen Simmons march towards the storage room and then walk out of the hall soon after. Patrolling, huh.

Simmons was not that big of a deal. They could get out of this situation easily. Bitters was quick on his feet, and all their raids had gone flawlessly the last week. _Simmons_ , of all people, was not going to put an end to that.

Had it been Wash, or freaking Carolina, Grif would probably be hiding inside a cupboard while screaming his lungs out.

The problem right now was the fact that Simmons had brought backup. Three flashlights could be seen moving around the hall, slowly coming closer.

Bitters slammed the back of his head against the counter, keeping it gentle enough not to make a sound that could give them away. "So what do we do now?"

"Hey, do you remember the time you swore loyalty to me?"

"I never did that."

Grif turned his head to stare at him, keeping his voice lowered, "Look, only one of us can make it out of here. I'm the superior which means I get to live."

"You're not my superior. You're not even a Captain."

"You sure as hell did not mind following my orders when it could give you extra pudding," Grif hissed. Bitters flipped him the finger. They were still stuck behind the counter and the lights were coming closer.

So this was how he died.

He should at least have made it to the storage locker.

But there was a certain familiarity to this situation. Thinking back caused a faint memory of pain and _oh fucking Christ had that hurt_ but at least it was not a tank this time. And maybe his strategy could work this time.

"Bitters, I have a plan."

"Why am I not convinced?" the Lieutenant asked but then fell quiet to listen.

"We're gonna make a run for it." When Bitters snorted, Grif had to continue, "Look, I've tried it before and it worked. We're gonna go on three. One." He turned his back to Bitters, remaining crouched. "Two-"

As if he did not see Bitters jump over the counter from the corner of his eye. Stupid teen thought he could escape while Grif was still counting.

What a maverick.

Too bad Grif was smarter. Having picked up a spoon from inside the counter, he now slammed it as hard as he could against the metal, and immediately all flashlights were turned towards the sound coming from the kitchen where Bitters had just landed on the other side of the counter, having left his cover.

For a second Bitters froze like a deer in a headlight. Then:

" _You fuck_."

As the other Lieutenants started to chase him, Bitters had no choice but to leap over the nearby table and run as fast as he could towards the exit.

"Get him!" Palomo's voice yelled in the darkness, and all the flashlights began to chase the poor soldier out of the hall.

Grif stayed low as he heard the sound of fast footsteps fading away, but then he stood up with a grin. He was the freaking ruler of the mess hall. And now he had the entire place for himself.

After all this work he could just as well get his prize.

Grif slipped into the storage locker quietly, knowing Bitters would be enough of a distraction to give him some minutes to find the good stuff. Too bad the biscuits with the chocolate layer were stowed away on the tallest shelf and Grif's height was definitely not an advantage.

He was standing on his toes, trying to reach the package, when the door to the locker suddenly slammed closed.

"Hello, Grif."

Grif did most certainly not let out an _eep_ of surprise. But Simmons did look rather menacing in the darkness with his cyborg eye casting a red light. The nerd was not wearing his helmet… Things were about to get serious then.

"Hi, Simmons," he replied, crossing his arms. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, I just love this place. It's so… comfy. The perfect place to visit every night this week at 01.20am, don't you think so, Grif?"

Well. Nerd had done his homework. Of course.

"Wow, did you just admit to being the midnight thief?" Grif faked a gasp of surprise. "I never thought you'd have the guts! You could have asked me to join, I would have taught you some tricks!"

"I know it's you, Grif." In the faint light he could see how he folded his hands. "And now everyone will know."

" _How_? You forgot your helmet-cam, dipshit."

Simmons froze before slamming his hands against his face. Grif crossed his arm in amusement while the other man finally came to the realization that he was in fact not wearing a helmet. When he finally recovered from the horror, Simmons let his arms drop. "Well, I may have forgotten that detail but it does not matter. All I need is to take you to Kimball."

"Yeah? Then what if I tell her _I_ was the one who caught _you_ in the storage room." Grif was not wearing armor either but only because of the simple fact that it was comfier and made it easier to sneak around quietly.

"No one is that stupid," Simmons said and took one step closer. "We already know you have been the mastermind of these raids."

"Then what if I tell you this was all Bitters' idea?"

"That… actually would not surprise me."

"Nah, kid had ideas but did not have the mind to put it all together. _I_ am the one you are after, Simmons."

Simmons had turned on his flashlight, bringing a true source of light into the small room. "You've gone too far, Grif."

He set his jaw. "I'd like to see you try to stop me."

"Be careful with what you wish for."

And then Grif lunged. Simmons tried to block his way, but he faked a jump to the left, then proceeded to kick Simmons' shin so he stumbled and two seconds later Grif was at the door. He was about to tear it open – when he realized that he could not.

"It's too late, Grif," Simmons informed him as he slowly got up from the floor. He brushed some dust off his knees and picked up his flashlight. "I sabotaged the door, knowing once you stepped inside, you would not get out before you were let out. Kinda like a mouse trap."

"…So what happened to you being on the other side of the door to gloat?"

Once again Simmons froze. " _Fuck_."

While the fake tension slowly seeped out of the small room, they both started to rub their neck awkwardly. "Well," Grif finally said, looking up, "that was fun. Are we going to die from lack of air now?"

"No, this place has vents. Too small for us to crawl through – definitely too small for _you_ to crawl through – but as soon as the others catch Bitters they will notice I am missing."

"Too bad Bitters will outrun them." With nothing else to do Grif let himself slowly slid down to sit on the floor. No reason to waste energy standing up. Maybe he could even get Simmons to fetch the biscuits in the corner; the nerd had the height and everything.

" _Please_. I've seen Bitters running in the training drills. Smith has already caught him."

After a moment of hesitation Simmons sat down next to him. Grif shoved his shoulder. "Bitters is quick on his feet. That's something else."

"Just how did you convince him to get into this mess?" Simmons asked and placed his flashlight in the middle like some sort of campfire. It did make him look like he was about to tell a ghost story.

"The dude is stuck in pink armor. Being the midnight thief would only help on his reputation." He reached out for the nearest shelf, hoping to grab some sort of snack, and he let out a sigh of disappointment when he ended up holding a package of some sort of pasta with weird name. Well, at least it was crunchy. "So is Kimball going to skin us alive?"

"You know our resources are limited, Grif."

"Dude, this people have dragged us into an actual war. They could at least compensate by giving me snacks."

Simmons let out a quiet snort, fidgeting with the flashlight. "So did the Feds satisfy your hunger?"

"The assholes _shot me_ , Simmons," Grif reminded him gravely. "I ate everything I could find."

"But… Grey fixed you up, right? It's not… It's healed, right?"

There was something about Simmons' voice, a bit too quiet and a bit too careful, and Grif tilted his head. "It's fine. One more scar to the collection. Let's wait with the counting until the war is over."

Simmons suddenly looked up at him sharply. "You better not get shot again."

"Fuck, I'm not planning to. If we kick Felix and Locus' asses, do you think these people will just give me their snacks?"

"If you make it through the war; yes, probably."

Grif sent him a smile. "I'll make it through the war then." His fingers had begun to open the package of pasta, something to keep himself busy with. "What about you, nerd?"

"Well, I'm a Captain now. I can't die, I need to lead my team." Honestly there were a lot of other good reasons to stay alive but perhaps the locker was just too small, too hot to say them all out loud. The air felt stuffed but not in a way that annoyed him.

Burrowing his hand in the package to play with the pasta, Grif kept his fingers busy. They were shaped like hoops, he realized, as he held one between two fingers, pressing the skin against it. "We can have the wedding after the war then."

Even with the limited light it was easy to see how red Simmons' face became. "But we aren't… You know…"

Reaching out with his left hand, the one that had once been Simmons', Grif grabbed the cybernetic hand in front of him, and pushed one of the pasta hoops down a slender, metal finger. "Here," he told him. "As much romance as we need."

Simmons pulled the hand back, not in rejection but to use his other hand to feel the gift. He had turned his head to stare at the wall. "You- I- We- … _Grif_."

He nodded. "Simmons."

They sat in silence for a while, Simmons fidgeting with his new gift while Grif watched him carefully. Screw the biscuits on the top shelf; they were not worth leaving the floor now. "So," he said after some moments where Simmons had just been staring at his finger, "you said the others were going to find us?"

"They'll notice I am missing," Simmons told him sternly. "They'll be here soon."

"How soon?" Grif continued to press him.

"How should I know?"

"If you came here to capture me, Simmons, did you bring any handcuffs?"

" _Grif_!"

He let out a short laughter, the kind that seemed to warm his chest for just a little while. The kind he had missed while being trapped in the Feds' cold bases.

When he looked up from the package, Simmons was staring at him, cyborg eye glowing dimly. Grif met his stare without blinking.

So they were still stuck on Chorus. And a war was still happening. A different kind of war, but still.

Shit was still going on. A couple of weeks ago Grif had been sharing room with Wash and it had been cold and the Freelancer had woken up trashing from nightmares and the nights had been so long. It was warmer here in Armonia, but the nightmares were still there. When Simmons woke up with that choked scream Grif would pull him closer, and when Grif was kicking in his sleep Simmons would run a hand through his hair.

The nights were still long but they were getting through it, and Grif would enjoy every piece of it that he could. If Chorus had taught them one thing it was that you could never count on how long things would last.

So Grif would gladly flip of Tucker when the unavoidable teasing would begin.

"Hey, Simmons?" he said and shoved the package of pasta into the corner of the small room. It disappeared in the darkness. "You did not bring your helmet." He pushed himself a bit forward with his palm.

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Just rub it in."

Grif waited for a moment, sending Simmons an amused smile, and with a smug voice he let him know; "I'm not wearing a helmet either."

He then leaned forward to let their foreheads rest against each other, proving that he was speaking the truth. Simmons did not pull back.

"Seriously, Grif?"

"Take a hint, nerd."

* * *

A/N: I made Simmons propose through a shared gravestone. You better believe I made Grif propose with pasta.

 **IMPORTANT!  
** This is the end of this story and I won't be active on this site any longer(only to finish "Offer Me Your Hand"). _However_ I have a user called RiaTheDreamer on Archive of Our Own where I have so many more RvB stories, and I keep making new ones, so if you want to read more from me, go find me there.

Thank you for this journey.


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